


Bloody But Unbowed

by BeautifulFiction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild torture, Post-Reichenbach, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ever since I returned to London, you have made it plain that my behaviour is intolerable. Clearly, you no longer find me praise-worthy in any capacity, so why are you still here?"</p><p>When a familiar argument threatens to destroy the last remnants of John and Sherlock's failing friendship, both men are left questioning their worth to one another. Before either of them has the chance to make amends, circumstance intervenes. John is left at the mercy of his abductors, and this time, he's not sure Sherlock will bother coming to his rescue.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Note: Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites such as goodreads or ebooks tree without my express permission. Thank you :)</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Несмотря ни на что](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1862382) by [dzenka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dzenka/pseuds/dzenka), [La_Ardilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Ardilla/pseuds/La_Ardilla)



> A/N: This is the answer to hominysnark's prompt after she won me for the tumblrcon auction. While I wanted to make this post-Reichenbach and pay my respects of Mary Morstan, her role is more off-screen in this piece.  
> 
> 
> * * *

John hated that it always came back to this. He loathed the bile churning in his gut and the words that seethed in the hollow of his throat. Pointless. It was all so fucking pointless, because Sherlock never changed. Too long dead and more than a year back in the land of the living, but still he treated people as if they were things: sources of information with no feelings to be spared.

He made tea, outwardly calm as a sea of deep anger frothed within him. He moved around the kitchen of Baker Street: his home again now after Mary had listened to his quiet apologies and handed back the diamond ring. A little over eight weeks ago, his fiancée had stood before him with tears in her eyes and love in her voice, even as she thanked him.

_“For being honest with yourself, John, and with me.”_

As if there had been another option. He was an idiot, and he'd made plenty of mistakes in his time, but marrying a woman he couldn't give himself to one hundred percent? John hoped he wasn't that much of a dick. As it was, it had taken his doubts long enough to grow; he'd left it painfully close to the final hour – their wedding day – to call everything off, but he'd needed time to realise there was a problem.

The days after Sherlock's return were shaky with shock, John's memories saturated in bitter resentment and relief so vivid it cleaved him in two. He had been vicious, back then: a wounded animal. He could barely stand the sight of Sherlock, yet nor could he stay away. He didn't dare, for fear he'd turn around and find he was gone again: a ghost after all.

Gradually, the uncertainty, fury and fear subsided, and the world which shattered when Sherlock stepped off the roof at Bart's fell back into place. There were a few new pieces, of course, the biggest of which was Mary. They'd already been engaged at that point, newly-so, and John had been prepared for Sherlock's disparagement and disdain. 

It never came. He tolerated Mary, accepted her even, which John would have bet good money was impossible. Sherlock gave them time and space, which in turn only drew John back into his orbit, reluctant at first, but captivated all the same until, together, they were chasing after the criminals of London again, breathless, exhilarated...

Alive.

John still remembered, clear like the cut of a knife, the moment he'd looked around, met Sherlock's eyes and experienced – the same as that first night after Angelo's when he'd forgotten his cane – an abrupt bloom of potential. A shocking reminder of why he had followed Sherlock in the first place, and why he'd missed him with such keening ferocity when he was gone.

It had been a punch to the gut, because the woman he loved – and God, he loved Mary: her softness and her light – never made him feel like that. She was a companion, not an addiction – not a necessity.

He should have told her sooner, would have done, if he wasn't such a coward. A wife was something he could understand, some pre-conceived notion of rightness that he had always thought he'd have one day. In contrast, Sherlock was probably a disaster waiting to happen, but if someone put a gun to John's head and told him to choose between them...

It wouldn't be Mary who won the toss.

Perhaps that was why, this time, Sherlock's callous disregard for others held such a bitter sting. John was a fool for letting Sherlock mean so much to him. He should despise him: arrogant, rude, abrasive and indifferent to people who deserved nothing but pity. Instead he'd surrendered the chance of contentment with Mary, and for what? A friendship that, to John, always seemed to be on the brink of something more, but for Sherlock was nothing but a convenience?

A small part of his mind whispered that there had to be more to it than that. Sherlock wouldn't have taken that leap at Moriarty's bidding for something so pallid, but he didn't listen. He was too busy fuming, not sure whether he was more angry at Sherlock for being such a git or himself for expecting anything different.

'Problem?' 

Sherlock's voice slipped through the air, not a sound of confusion, but something arch and challenging. John didn't need to look at him to know he was standing a few paces away, back straight, arms folded: all abrasive angles in the tailored lines of his suit. He radiated disdain, as if he were already deriding John for his ridiculous, human sentiments.

'Of course there's a problem,' he bit out, abandoning the tea and turning around, his feet braced and his brow drawn into a scowl. 'Their son is missing. The wife was so hysterical she could barely breathe, and anyone could see the husband wasn't much better. Then you had to go and be –' He waved his hand, searching for a word that could encompass all of Sherlock's insensitivity in a few syllables and failing. 'These people are victims. It's not their job to entertain you with the details of their misery!'

'And what would you have me do? Coddle them? Lie? Tell them their child will be fine?' His lips pursed tight, and John noticed the displeasure in Sherlock's scowl. It seemed he wasn't the only one sick of this same old argument. 'Better that I actually solve the case, which I could be doing now if you hadn't dragged me away!'

'You'd done enough damage.' John cuffed a hand through his hair, attempting to think around the seething mass of emotion rolling in his gut. If he was truthful with himself, there was more to this than Sherlock's actions today, but it was the catalyst: the spark that lit the fuse. 'For God's sake, Sherlock. Would it kill you to be human?'

'Would that be a comfort?' He cocked his head, his eyes sharp. 'Is that what you want, for me to be just like everyone else?'

The question was unexpected, and John's breath stuttered. Sherlock didn't normally do this – he didn't allow himself and John to become the subject of their fights. Usually, they centred around nebulous concepts of the case and intellectual superiority over everything else. However, just for a moment, Sherlock was making it personal.

Before John could snatch in air for a denial, he ploughed on, dragging them back into the realms of tangential abstraction: not about the two them any longer, at least not on the surface. 'Will they care more about what I say, or whether I find their offspring? Don't you see? The perpetrator is evidently someone close to the family, but with no ransom demands yet to be made it's likely motivation is based on vengeance or convenience rather than a desire for wealth.'

'What's that got to do with anything?' John demanded, briefly closing his eyes.

'It means whoever took him has no discernible reason to keep the boy safe!' Sherlock spread his hands, his face twisted in a mask of disbelief at John's confusion. 'Their hopes of seeing their son again are limited at best, and they rely on me having the information I need to solve the case. What good are their tears?'

'They are people.' John stabbed his finger at the air. 'You could have kept quiet. You could have just listened!'

'They were talking in circles!'

'So you had to open your mouth and terrify them? Jesus, Sherlock. It's like they're worthless to you unless they can help you with the case. Do you even know the kid's name?'

He sneered, waving a hand dismissively. 'Malcolm, Martin... What does it matter?'

John closed his eyes, running his tongue over his teeth. 'It's Nicholas, and of course it matters. You can't do this. You treat experiments with more respect than you bothered giving them!'

'So I should offer comfort rather than solve crimes, is that what you're saying?'

'I'm saying it wouldn't hurt to let yourself _feel_.' His voice roughened the last word, coarse and ragged in his throat. 'Do you even try and put yourself in their shoes?'

'Why bother?' Sherlock demanded. 'You are unable to rationalise around your useless empathy. Why would I want to impede myself in a similar manner?' Something flickered in his gaze, a ghost of a memory, perhaps, because his next words were hauntingly familiar. 'Caring won't help save them, so I will continue not to make that mistake.' 

Irritably, he pulled his phone free of his pocket, his fingers quick over the keys. 'Since you dragged me away before I could talk to Lestrade, I need to inform him of what little I managed to learn from the parents, then get to the lab. Better to be useful than stand around clutching a bleeding heart.'

'It's not a crime to give a fuck,' John spat, stung by the obvious criticism. His shoulders hunched and his hands curled into fists, tense and miserable in a way even Sherlock couldn't miss.

'Why does it matter to you?' he asked, hitting the send button with his thumb before scowling in John's direction. 'Why do you bring this up time and again?'

'Because you keep doing it. You keep acting like everyone – friends and strangers – don't mean anything to you. Like no one's even worth the effort of giving a damn!'

'No one is!'

John flinched, his scowl deepening. 'Course not. I'm an idiot for thinking otherwise,' he snapped, barely noticing Sherlock's eyes grow flat and shuttered. 'It's about the Work. About solving problems. Winning. Everything else just gets in the way, right?'

He ignored the way his breathing turned uneven, his skin pulsing and his spine tense as Sherlock stepped forward. One pace, that was all. John hadn't realised they'd been so close, intimate, even in their ire. Now, Sherlock loomed, and John could see nothing of that gentler side he had glimpsed, with increasing frequency, back before Sherlock had taken the fall. He was cold and slick, his eyes like sheets of silver ice as he spoke.

'Ever since I returned to London, you have made it plain that my behaviour is intolerable. Clearly, you no longer find me praise-worthy in any capacity, so why are you still here?'

'W-what?' John's mind scrambled, but antagonism fogged his thoughts, and the stammer dissolved beneath his temper. 'Not everything's about you, Sherlock!'

'But this is. _My_ conduct. _My_ treatment of other people. _My_ way of getting things done. You used to tolerate it; perhaps you decided my company was worth the cost?' His lips twisted and his eyes narrowed. 'If that's no longer the case, then I wish you would stop dithering and just _leave_.'

It would be better if Sherlock had shouted, but this was calm – deliberate – and every syllable slammed another nail into John's chest. There was no room for misinterpretation – no reason to assume Sherlock meant a temporary departure, and John's throat closed tight. He clenched his jaw, his hand spasming at his side before he gave a nod: one brusque jerk.

'Fine,' he croaked, his fury a glaze over the cold pit of suffering that opened in his stomach. 'Fine.' Ducking around Sherlock, he cringed away so that their sleeves didn't brush before grabbing his coat, dragging it on and heading for the front door. He didn't glance back – didn't need to – because Sherlock wouldn't have anything like remorse on his face. He would just be himself, frigid and untouchable, a closed book to John now.

He paused on the threshold, knowing the words on his lips would wound his flatmate, but he said them anyway, frost coating his tongue. 'You know what, Sherlock? I was wrong.' He shoved his hands in his pockets and bowed his head. 'There's nothing amazing about you. Not anymore.'

John picked up his pace, clattering downwards and slamming the door to 221 so hard that the knocker thumped and the letter box rattled in reproach. Still, he did not pause. He let his feet take him away, his hurried strides eating up the pavement as he sought his escape.

His gut roiled and his chest brimmed with icy emptiness as he kept his head down, staring at the ground as his mind languished in horrible blankness. He barely checked the road before crossing, hurrying along until he could slip into Regent’s Park, grim now in the closing twilight. It was a different piece of London – not a collection of spires and blocks: not Sherlock's city. Sometimes it was the only place John could think, and more than anything, that's what he needed to do.

What had he expected? Capitulation? A promise from Sherlock to do better? To try harder? An apology? John didn't know, but of everything, it wasn't that. It wasn't to be thrown out like something worthless, Sherlock's contempt so much worse when it was he who it bathed in its desultory light. Was it the final proof that Sherlock really didn't care about anyone, not even John?

He swore quietly, slumping onto a bench and putting his head in his hands, telling himself it was the cold that made him shake as his thoughts twisted in on themselves. How many times, when Sherlock was dead, had he longed for a miracle? He'd told himself that he'd be happy – so happy – if Sherlock lived, and here he was, more miserable than he'd been in a long time.

They used to fit together like matching cogs in the complex machine of the Work. Now they were a pair of grinding gears, awkward in each other's space and lost amidst the memories of too many words they'd never had the chance to say. Or at least, John was. Sherlock, on the other hand... God knew what he thought about the situation – if he noticed it at all. 

He blinked, frowning when he realised his phone was in his hand, his fingers clutched tight around its slim form. Quiet expectation thrummed in his veins, waiting for a text telling him to meet him at the Yard, or to return home and bring milk, because Sherlock wanted tea. The same anticipation lingered in his muscles, glowing beneath the sullen simmer of his mood. Every silhouette made him look up, expecting pale skin and the wings of the Belstaff as he listened for awkward, stumbling apologies that shouldn't have worked but put the pieces back together all the same.

None came, and John despised himself for hoping otherwise.

He sat there, allowing the winter air to seep into his bones and the wind to chafe his cheeks, giving his eyes an excuse to pinch and sting. Clinging to his outrage was a pointless endeavour, weak in the face of his growing recriminations. In the end, the way Sherlock behaved to the parents of the missing boy was no different than it had been at a dozen crime scenes over the years. Even at his most thoughtful, not long before he jumped, Sherlock had been much the same. Indifferent and distant, except to those few who he had come to appreciate. Those whom he'd done everything to protect from Mori-bloody-arty.

No, he wasn't upset about Sherlock's detachment. At least, not for the right reasons. John didn't want him to change; he wanted other people to see what he did, once upon a time. The softness beneath that intelligence – the depths he kept so well hidden. Before Sherlock left, John had glimpsed them more and more, and he'd been captivated. He'd felt privileged, special, like he was the only one permitted to appreciate what Sherlock obscured from the rest of the world.

John had been chasing those memories ever since Sherlock got back. He'd stolen sideways glances and twisted his mind in knots as he sought hidden meanings in plain statements, trying to see the man who'd left in the one who returned. Hope lingered, yet as the months passed, their lives failed to entwine. They had not found that same closeness, but John could not bring himself to stop searching.

Mary had noticed; she was clever, not like Sherlock, all cold facts and solid theories. She was intelligent when it came to human nature. John had often wondered if she'd seen their end long before he had recognised the inevitability. God, she had been good to him, and Sherlock too, and what did she get in return? Dumped in favour of a fantasy – a memory of Sherlock that was more a dream than anything else.

With a groan, he furrowed the fingers of his right hand into his hair, trying to understand what had happened. How had they gone from stealing ashtrays at Buckingham Palace, breathless and euphoric, to this: disapproval and apathy? How had Sherlock got from there, balanced on the edge of a rooftop, his voice full of grief, to standing in their kitchen and telling John to go as if he were nothing but a stupid client wasting his time? More than once John wondered if it had been fake, the despair in that phone-call part of the act. Sherlock's behaviour tonight made that more likely, and yet...

Shaking his head, John pursed his lips and pocketed his mobile, running his palms over his knees as he considered his immediate future. It would be easiest to go to Harry or Greg, to hide away, find a new flat and get out of Sherlock's life all together, but the thought made his battered heart hurt. Perhaps Sherlock didn't think what they once had was worth the effort, but John was another matter. He couldn't turn his back on all that, not without trying to understand. 

They'd never talked about the time Sherlock had been gone: not beyond those first, rage-filled weeks, when accusations saturated the air as apologies remained notable in their absence. Since then, neither of them had dared to address the issues that dwelt between them, and so they stagnated in an inadequate no-man's land, where even friendship seemed impossible.

He'd held his silence, at first because he told himself it didn't matter. John had Mary, so – selfish and with an edge of petty vengeance – he'd pretended he didn't care about what had happened to Sherlock. Then, when he'd found himself considering his upcoming marriage and making his choice, he'd been unwilling to bring it up for fear of the consequences. Sherlock had built walls around himself, and John was afraid of what he would find if he peeled them back.

Except now, it wasn't like he had anything left to lose, was it? Sherlock had already terminated the wispy remains of whatever they had, giving up on him, and John was left out in the cold.

Well, fuck that. Anger sparked through him anew, and John straightened his spine. Maybe Sherlock wasn't going to fight for the past they shared, but he was damned if he would roll over and obey such a curt dismissal. 

He'd paid rent for this month: that meant there was still a fortnight to see if there was more to Sherlock's outburst than met the eye. He would hide behind a barrier of indifference and scorn, but John was used to dealing with that – out of practice, perhaps, but skilled all the same. He'd prise the truth free, even if that one last bout of honesty was their parting gift to each other – the requiem of their friendship.

Resolved, he got to his feet, determination taking rage's place as he strode out of the park. With every pace he steeled himself for what would no-doubt be a fraught conversation, but if he wanted to understand, then it couldn't be avoided. He had to know why Sherlock had taken that step, turning a common, if bitter, debate into their final conflict. 

Perhaps he didn't care anymore, but John stubbornly refused to believe it. He kept thinking of Sherlock's voice framing denigrations – not of his flatmate, but of himself as seen through John's eyes. Sherlock could easily have picked at John's flaws, but he had not. Instead, even as he was throwing John out of the flat, he seemed to place the blame at his own feet. That had to mean something, didn't it?

A sigh left John's lips, and he turned down one of the alleys, attempting to cut a few minutes off the short journey. His mind was so full of Sherlock that he didn't notice the way was blocked until one of the shadows moved, a deeper patch of darkness in the gloom that brought John up short. 

The light was sparse, but there was enough to make out the man: a rugby player type gone to seed. Muscles lay beneath a thick layer of fat, and unremarkable clothes clad his bulk in shades of grey, tan and black. His face was nondescript and his expression almost bored as he examined John with an unexpected amount of cunning in his gaze.

'Doctor Watson.' There was no accent to his words, just a generic London tone. Everything about him screamed “nothing special”, and that in itself had John's instincts on high alert. 'You need to come with us.'

'Us?' John repeated as he looked over his shoulder, his stomach sinking as he took in two men behind him. One, taller than Sherlock and broad with it, had a black beanie pulled down over copper hair. Yet it was the other one who caught John's attention, not for his appearance, but for the cruel mockery in his eyes. He'd seen that before, back in Afghanistan, on the faces of soldiers who got off on having power over others. 'I don't think so.'

There was no banter, no back-and-forth. All three leapt at him, and John whipped his hands out of his pockets, employing fists and elbows without thought. Skin split and bled, but he ignored it as his mind lost itself in adrenaline's song. This, he could understand, savage as it was. A fight for his own safety and survival. The Sig was back in Baker Street, useless in his bedside drawer, but that didn't mean he was out of options, and every grunt of pain was a point in his favour.

He kept moving, ducking and weaving in the narrow channel of the alley, sensing the air stir with every swing that passed a touch too close. He was smaller than all three of them, and it was natural to curve his shoulders, hunching down and making himself less of a target. Fleeing back to the sanctuary of the flat would be the best choice, but there was no space to get away, and John bared his teeth in a snarl as someone's punch hit him on the side of the head, abrupt but skilled. 

The blow slammed him into the wall, making him swear as he tried to retaliate, but it was the tripping point that sent his equilibrium spiralling out of control. Within moments, any chance of gaining the upper-hand was gone. Fists rained down on his ribs as a slam of weight between his shoulders drove him to his knees. He wheezed around the discomfort, blinking sweat and blood out of his eyes as he was pressed, face-down, to the filthy ground.

He tried to writhe and kick, but a caustic flash of discomfort bloomed in his neck as he was jabbed with a syringe. A moment later, the sensation vanished, lost beneath a tide of agony as some _fucker_ stamped on his right arm. 

A howl tore free from his throat, rough and hacking. Rashes of numbness and heat spread outwards to leave him gagging in his surrender. He tried to pull away, his efforts of escape dis-coordinated and desperate as someone pinned his wrist. Peeling his eyes open, he saw a raised boot and the vicious, cold-hearted grin of the third man as he prepared to make the most of John's weakness and worsen the fracture with another sharp kick.

'Mitchell!' The word was a snap, and John swallowed as the first one shoved his assailant, sending him staggering back into the wall. 'That's enough. The good doctor's got the message.'

'But, Baz...'

'No! I said enough!'

John tried to spit his fury at the three thugs, but his mouth was dry and his head was spinning, either from the punch or whatever they'd injected into him. The world was starting to grey at its edges, and he blinked fiercely, his breathing strained. He tried to rear back as the biggest one hunkered down at his side, jerking his chin up and talking to his colleagues. 'We need him alive if we want Holmes to come looking.'

Fresh torment rolled over him as he was hauled upright and bundled away. Rubbish slid beneath his clumsy feet and he heard the garbled groan of an idling engine, but they were fleeting impressions as he slipped towards a drugged stupor.

A weak laugh wrung itself free of his chest, and he lifted his head to glare hazily at his captors. 'He won't.' The denial was slurred, and John spat a gob of blood before shaking his head. 'He won't come.' 

'Don't be so hard on yourself.' Baz chortled as he shoved John into the back of the van, ignoring his curse of misery. 'Oh, don't get me wrong. We'll keep him busy. Keep him chasing his tail until we're ready for him, but he'll show up eventually, and you know what? When he does, we'll put that bastard in the ground.' He grinned, the red brake-lights gleaming bloody off his chipped front teeth. 

'And this time, we'll make sure he stays there.'


	2. Chapter 2

The lab was peaceful, filled with the quiet whirr of equipment and the contralto hum of fluorescent lights. Sherlock perched, his back straight, on one of the stools, his hands going through the motions of preparing a microscope slide as his mind spun loose on its axis.

John had left. After months of hovering on some unknown precipice, tearing Sherlock's nerves to shreds and amplifying the leaden pain that took root in his chest, he had finally gone. It was as if a calamity had reached its crescendo, and now Sherlock was stranded in the wasteland that remained, small and shaken.

Worse, for all his intelligence and logic, he could not adequately analyse events and define the point in time it had all unravelled. Long before tonight, clearly. The same, weary argument about the usefulness of sentiment or, failing that, tact, was not one that should have driven such a thick wedge between them. Had this steady decline been a process of months? Years? Had it begun, ironically enough, when sentiment forced Sherlock's hand and led him over the rooftop at Bart's?

Did it even matter?

His jaw worked, the grind of his teeth loud in his ears as the lab echoed around him. Baker Street was less a fortress and more a shell in the wake of John's departure, so he fled the crushing pressure of its emptiness to find solace in the familiar territory of the morgue. 

He'd considered following John, chasing him down and finding out _why_. Why now? Knowledge of John's motive seemed essential, because perhaps if he knew the cause of their disharmony, he could somehow bring their clashing melodies back in tune.

Yet logic took him in another direction: here, to answer the call of the Work. He had meant what he said earlier, that the boy – _Nicholas_ , John's voice murmured in his head – had the odds stacked against him. Either he was already dead, or he was being held to some unknown deadline, one which may be fast approaching. 

If he chased after John and the child suffered as a result, then it would hurt John far more than anything Sherlock had said. Guilt was insidious, creeping in around the edges and through the cracks. No, better to solve the case. Contrary to John's belief, that was Sherlock's way of caring. He had learned years ago that words did nothing to ease fear or grief. Action was preferable by far. Besides, some sliver of him hoped that it would be apology enough: a happy ending to prove his worth.

Unfortunately, concentrating on the subtle tells of the evidence in front of him was painfully difficult. Every time he endeavoured to focus, his emotions rattled the order of his thoughts into chaos. He was asking questions, but not the right ones – nothing that could lead him to Nicholas. Instead, like a scratched record caught on a glitch, he inwardly queried what he had done wrong.

Everything, perhaps. He had known, despite his desperate wishes to the contrary, that his home-coming would be more painful than relieving. The fantasy he cherished, of being welcomed with open arms – of returning to the life he and John shared before Moriarty had put a gun in his mouth – had never been anything but a daydream. 

John's anger was understandable, expected even, for all that it sliced through Sherlock's skin. Not even the truth of self-sacrifice mollified him, and so Sherlock was forced to horde morsels of comfort from John's actions, rather than his words. 

For months, he ricocheted in and out of Sherlock's life, sullen and abrasive in his presence, but apparently unable to stay away. That, at least, had warmed the ice in Sherlock's veins, but it didn't last. The embers of hope soon faded, deadened by the presence of the woman in John's life.

To this day, he wasn't sure what John had been trying to say when he introduced Mary. Was he hoping to include Sherlock in the new existence he had carved out for himself in his absence, or was it an attempt to prove that he had carried on without him? In the end, he didn't think John knew one way or the other, but Sherlock's instinctive reaction was abrupt and visceral.

He wanted Mary out – gone: intruder that she was, despite the ring on her finger. She had done her job, providing John with companionship in Sherlock's absence. Now he was back, John could return to finding sexual release with a string of irrelevant girlfriends and resume living with Sherlock. She, with her compassionate eyes and a frankly banal background, wasn't needed.

Then he had seen John's face, the softness there, the open regard, and his anger fled, leaving him drained and numb. He knew how it was meant to go: sacrifice all over again, because this was John, happy for the first time since Sherlock got back and obviously eased by Mary's presence. Wasn't that what he was meant to want the most? John's joy? His breathless laughter? The gleam of life in his eyes?

Once, Sherlock had been the cause of all that. Not as a lover – though even that unexpected idea had developed a tentative allure – but as a friend. Yet that mantle had passed to Mary, and Sherlock was left to scrounge for scraps on the periphery of John's existence, trying to ignore the way his ribs felt as if they had cracked open to let Arctic air into his chest. 

His choices were few. If he pushed Mary away, then John would go with her, as certainly as night followed day. If he tried to force them apart, he would probably only push them together in his clumsiness. Either way, John would retreat, and if Sherlock could not have all of him, then he would have to be content with fragments. 

Such surrender went against his nature, but Sherlock swallowed his pride and his pain, accepting her by cautious increments. Nothing so brash as to raise suspicion, but nor was it so subtle that it slipped John's attention. 

At first, it was an act: something he was forced to do for the sake of John's sporadic, often awkward company. However, as time passed and he steadily reintegrated into London's life, he began to see the benefit of Mary's presence. She helped to balance John's anger, tempering it to a silver scar rather than a bleeding wound. She made it possible for them to take a few hesitant steps forwards, if not in friendship, then at least in something like trust. 

The process was agonisingly slow, and Sherlock had forced himself, time and again, to be patient. It was tempting to fake apathy, to pretend it didn't matter whether John was by his side or not, but that was too big a lie, even for him. Perhaps his time away had changed him, cracked him in ways he couldn't repair, because once another person in his space would have been a crass intrusion. 

Now, John's occasional company seemed insufficient. Easy silences were a thing of the past and something unsaid saturated the air between them, but Sherlock took what he could get and, resigned, told himself to be grateful.

A sigh escaped his lips, a loud rush in the peace as the computer screen flashed beside him, flickering through the database at Sherlock's request.

Life at Baker Street had been far from perfect: a stilted, limping remnant of a friendship he feared dead. Then one day, it changed. Perhaps it happened so slowly that Sherlock failed to observe it, though that seemed unlikely. John was with him on a case, more by accident than design, and it couldn't have gone better if he tried. All the clues fell into the place: a glorious chase through London’s streets, familiar once more; a successful capture...

And John, _his_ John – not an acquaintance or a colleague, but the same, devoted friend Sherlock had left behind – turning to him with a grin that lit up the city.

Foolishly, he believed it was forgiveness he could see in that gaze. A fortnight later, Mary was gone, the breakup painful yet without animosity. John apologetic, Mary understanding and Sherlock confused and anxious, because he didn't understand the reasons but he hoped – selfishly – that he was the cause. Finally, John would come back to Baker Street and all would be as it was before, if not better.

Or so he'd hoped.

Instead, they found themselves in some chafing, uncertain place, where all Sherlock's actions seemed inadequate, and John's face was fixed in permanent lines of disappointment and annoyance. It was as if, in leaving Mary, John had reopened the old wounds between himself and Sherlock. Not quite as deep as they had been, but oozing still. Their new stability grew tenuous, and every morning Sherlock wondered if today would be the day John gave up on him and escaped for good.

Now, thanks to nerves stretched thin and another meaningless argument, Sherlock's fear had led him to voice a challenge. He had demanded to know why John didn't just leave, hiding his doubt beneath disdain even as he longed for reassurance. 

Instead, John had turned around and walked away.

'Idiot.' Slumping forward, he pressed his hands to his forehead, wishing he could reach in and shake everything loose. He couldn't function like this, split apart by indecision and with his guts twisting in angry, sorrowful knots. Perhaps he had made the wrong choice in coming to the labs after all. Perhaps he should have ignored the case and sought out John.

The beep of the computer encouraged him to look up, and Sherlock frowned at the screen, the information displayed taking a while to permeate his mind. It wasn't much, but his fumbling labours had borne fruit, enough to point Lestrade in the right direction. 

There had been very little foreign particulate matter at the scene of the boy's abduction, but one smudge of earth on the patio below his bedroom window did not belong amidst the acidic sediment of Richmond. It was thicker and wet, wrong even to the naked eye. The mixture was clay and marsh, rare in London's cultivated sprawl, and now the pollen grains in the sample, their diversity like a fingerprint, gave him something to work with. Not much, but at this point, Lestrade would be grateful for anything Sherlock could throw his way.

Getting to his feet, he strode out of the lab, his heart unaccountably high in his throat as he fired off a text to the DI. **"Particulates at scene originated in Bexley. Clay and wet, marsh-like soil only found in a stretch along the south bank of the Thames. - SH"**

He kept his phone in his hand as he pushed his way out of the hospital and hailed a taxi, slipping into the back seat and speaking on auto-pilot. 'Baker Street.' He blinked as the words left his mouth, his heart communicating without the interference of higher rationality. He'd planned on going to the Yard and assisting Lestrade with his disorganised efforts, but it seemed his unconscious mind had other ideas.

'You sure, mate?' the cabbie asked, catching his gaze in the rear-view mirror and waiting for Sherlock's hesitant nod before he set off. Acting on instinct was not a course of action he often took. To others, it may look like he was flipping the coin of a choice and following it blindly, but there was method to it, deductions and insights all leading him to an informed outcome. This was different. There was nothing rational about returning to the flat. The chances of John being there were slim, but Sherlock felt compelled to check, as if visiting the scene of their dispute could bring them both full circle and back on to solid ground.

The rasp of an incoming text gave his scattered thoughts focus, and he glanced down at Lestrade's reply. **"Bexley? Can you narrow it down a bit? That's the other side of the city and sixty square kilometres. It'd take us days to comb that, even with dogs - GL"**

Clenching his teeth, Sherlock reached for his patience, jamming his fingers into the buttons in emphasis. **"The soil's from a strip no more than a kilometre wide and perhaps twelve long. That mud either came from Stone or Greenhithe. Whether Nicholas is there is another matter. I'll explore other avenues and let you know what I find. - SH"**

He slipped his phone into his pocket, indifferent to any response that might come his way. Cases of abduction were uniquely trying, stamping their mark on the faces of everyone at the Yard. They brought with them the tight edge of stress from a counting clock and the inevitable dread that followed. Sherlock would be more functional keeping his distance until he had something solid with which to work.

First, though, he needed to talk to John.

The taxi pulled up to the kerb, and Sherlock climbed out, paying the driver and tugging his keys free of his pocket as he let himself in. The lights were on, but that told him nothing. He'd not bothered turning them off before he had fled a couple of hours ago. John's coat wasn't hung up in the hall and, since she was visiting her sister, Mrs Hudson's flat lay dark and still.

His foot was already on the bottom step when a spark of observation ignited in his brain, making him turn back to their landlady's door. The panel was bland and unmarked, but the handle was caught at an angle, not neatly neutral as it had been when he departed. There was no sign that Mrs Hudson had returned early, and unease prickled down Sherlock's spine as he pulled on his leather gloves and crept through the hallway, touching the brassware lightly before easing it downwards.

There was no resistance, and he breathed a curse as the hinges swung open, the lock prised apart from the inside as if whoever had done it wanted to leave their mark. Slipping over the threshold, he looked around, frowning at his undisturbed surroundings. Nothing was missing, not even the easily lifted objects of value. The place was pristine.

A glance through the beaded curtain to the rear door confirmed his suspicions, damage from a forced entry apparent. If Mrs Hudson's possessions had not been the target for opportunistic thieves, then their true destination was no doubt 221B.

Thinking quickly, he opened one of the kitchen cupboards, grabbing a pot of ground pepper and loosening the lid. As weapons went, it was rudimentary, but a few seconds' advantage was not something to be sneered at. So far, he had not heard a breath of noise from upstairs, but that did not mean the place was empty.

The bottom stair moaned under his right foot, and Sherlock's eyes danced up the seventeen steps, mapping out the weak joints from memory. It made progress slow, avoiding every little creak and groan, but his gaze stayed intent on the door at their summit, grimacing at the depressed wood around the lock and the shattered frame. Someone had kicked it in: boots, size eleven, new, judging by the lack of wear visible in the print they'd left behind. 

He paused on the threshold, touching a finger to the shadowed dents and frowning at its alien cleanliness. Soles picked up grit and dust, even in the city. An echo of that should have remained, but only the kiss of pressure was present. It was almost as if the culprit had changed their shoes before attacking the entrance, but to what purpose?

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock ignored the hollow shudder in his stomach as he eased his way inside, taking in the catastrophe that was his and John's home. He stared, his thoughts glassy and crystalline as he pressed back rolling horror in an effort to keep his head clear. Cerebrally, he was well-practised at delaying an emotional response to something untoward, or repressing it all together, but his body was not so easily tamed. His hands shook, minute vibrations quivering along his arms as his heart raced and his breathing turned shallow. Sweat prickled between his shoulder-blades, and his back hunched as his muscles tensed, prepared for fight or flight.

He ignored the worried, mental cacophony of John's name on repeat as he drifted like a purposeful ghost through the carnage. He explored every shadowed corner and window, noticing the dichotomous, untouched neatness of John's domain. They'd concentrated their efforts in the main body of the flat, ransacking everything only to depart, but why?

Hurrying back down the steps from John's room, he set the container of ground pepper aside, breathing deeply through his nose as he allowed a bubble of panic to pop in his chest, dark and sinister. Had John been here when this happened? Had he come home, despite Sherlock's doubts, only to pay the price of interrupting whatever had taken place? Were Sherlock's last words to him going to be a cold, harsh statement urging his departure?

'Stop,' he hissed to himself, snarling gloved fingers in his hair and giving one hard yank, the pain grounding him. He could not afford to become lost in panic. Sentiment, as he had told John more than once, was the downfall of an intelligent mind. Nothing could be achieved by fretful, macabre thoughts of worst case scenarios. This was who he was and what he did: he saw what was hidden from other, less penetrative eyes. His abilities allowed him to act, rather than leaving him helpless and stranded on a sea of his own fear. All he had to do was _think_.

Spinning around, he dropped his hands, forcing himself to concentrate on the patterns within the apparent pandemonium. There were no footprints nor scuffs on the floor or walls, suggesting that the perpetrator had moved with more grace than haste. Piles of books had been toppled and furniture overturned, but there was little in the way of actual damage. This was not the debris of a fight – the lack of blood told that story – and nor was it the thorough disorganisation of a search. The more he looked, the more he realised it was destruction for the sake of it.

A distraction.

Rubbing his lips in thought, Sherlock stared blankly at his laptop, its screen smashed from being dropped on the floor. A cup of tea was overturned beside it, and a book nearby was drenched with the fluid. It must have happened an hour ago at least. It took time for pages to become saturated to such an extent, but that did not give him much to work with.

Whoever was doing this wanted him to know they'd been here, but what were they hoping he would see in their message? Was it a threat, or was it merely meant to slow him down and capture his attention from a more important focus?

Biting the tips of his gloved fingers, Sherlock dragged off the leather, dialling John's mobile number with the touch of a few buttons and pressing it to his ear. The ring droned, but there was no reply until it dropped through to voice-mail. With a tight huff, Sherlock disconnected, praying that John didn't answer by choice, rather than because he was unable.

He dithered over what to do next, his mind darting down the avenues of possibility. The longer he stayed here, analysing the mess, the more certain he became that this was the last place he was meant to be. What had happened at 221B was a mask for something else, and that meant someone was trying to hide something from him – something important. Was it to do with Nicholas' abduction? If John were by his side, Sherlock wouldn't doubt it. He might even take it as a sign of encouragement – an indication that he was on the correct track regarding the boy's case – but his friend's absence threw other factors into play, ones which Sherlock could not ignore.

It was common knowledge in the criminal under-classes that John was his weak-point. Moriarty had known how to apply the right amount of pressure to make Sherlock fold, but few others harboured such intelligence or eerie elegance in their schemes. They had a tendency to underestimate both their captive and Sherlock's ability to distance himself from his emotions. He only hoped that the same trend proved true in this instance. If, of course, John had become a target.

Closing his eyes, he pushed aside the fog of nervous concern, firmly prioritising as he re-evaluated the evidence. First, he had to confirm the situation. His response and the tools at his disposal would vary dramatically depending on the motive behind this choreographed display. It was a glut of information, someone hoping to tangle him in an illogical mess of data, and Sherlock allowed himself a flicker of pride for seeing through the deception.

Logic dictated his next course of action. Mycroft vowed that there were no cameras hidden in the recesses of 221B. Perhaps he was telling the truth, but even if his brother could not clarify what had occurred within the four walls of Baker Street via surveillance, perhaps he could shed light on anything unusual in the surrounding area.

Clamping the phone to his ear, he whirled around, rushing down the stairs and out of the front door. John was predictable in his habits, his routes through London's sprawl like the course of a river, and Sherlock considered his mental map as he waited for the line to connect. Most areas offered little seclusion for an abduction, too exposed to the prying eyes of CCTV and pedestrians alike, but there were a few blind-spots that were worth exploring for signs of a struggle, or for John himself.

'Sherlock.' Mycroft hid his surprise well, his tones as unctuous as ever. 'To what do I owe the dubious pleasure of your call?'

Restraining a sigh, Sherlock pushed through a myriad of inflammatory replies. There would be other days to bait his brother. For now, he was in pursuit of answers, and he didn't have time to play games. 'If you have any remaining cameras in our flat, I need you to check the footage for the last two hours.'

'What's happened?' Mycroft's voice softened, no longer bristling with hidden barbs, but controlled and competent, the way he had addressed Sherlock as a child. 'I obeyed your request to give you and John privacy in your own home, despite my doubts to the contrary. There are no devices under my control within that building.'

'What about the doors? I know you too well to believe you wouldn't track us in the public domain.'

There was a faint sigh, and Sherlock could hear the rattle of computer keys, fast and skilled. 'Your life is a dangerous one; I merely take – precautions. The front is watched by the camera across the street, the back isn't, as you know.'

Memories of throwing a CIA agent out of the window onto Mrs Hudson's bins brought a frail smile of triumph to his lips, but it soon faded, driven away by Mycroft's demand. 'Sherlock, tell me what happened.'

'221B has been tossed, but it's staged. The distribution indicates neither conflict nor a search as cause for the disruption. Someone's trying to distract me, either from my current case or –' 

He hesitated, his heart fluttering horribly beneath his ribs. They did not discuss matters of sentiment. Mycroft was even more scathing of such things than Sherlock. Any acquaintances that did not prove useful were ephemera to his brother, and he knew he always viewed John with faintly baffled interest, as if he were a compelling specimen in Sherlock's life, rather than a human being. Explaining his concerns would have to be done with care if he wanted to avoid Mycroft's mockery.

'John and I argued,' he said at last, hoping he wouldn't probe too deeply. 'He left; he's not answering his phone, and I can't be sure that the disaster in our home isn't somehow related to him.'

For a while, there was peace on the other end of the line. Sherlock allowed it to grow as he darted through one of the alleys, his eyes scouring the ground for anything that could confirm his suspicions.

At length, Mycroft spoke, his words placed cautiously as if he were navigating a minefield. 'John is a man of strong emotion and is not above displays of passive aggression when he feels it necessary. If you had a disagreement, it's possible he simply does not wish to speak to you.'

'I know that, it's just –' Sherlock bit off the rest of his sentence, running his tongue over his teeth. Justifying this to himself was problematic enough, but informing Mycroft that his current behaviour was fuelled almost entirely by intuition seemed ridiculous. His brother had never been one to take gut instinct seriously, and so he struggled for a different explanation. 'I've not progressed far enough in the case to warrant pre-emptive action that would block or delay the investigation. There must be another factor coming into play, and John is the most likely alternative.' 

Mycroft did not argue, his lack of response adequate acknowledgement of Sherlock's point. He could hear him talking quietly to various minions as Sherlock turned into another alleyway, the walls pressing close and claustrophobic around him. 'Well?' he demanded, huffing impatiently when his brother tutted.

'I do not have immediate access to every camera in London. I'll need a few minutes to offer conclusive results, but so far there's nothing alarming showing up in Baker Street or its surroundings.'

'Such as?'

'Your flatmate's corpse?' Mycroft sighed, sounding more resigned than apologetic. 'I appreciate that, when it comes to Doctor Watson, you have an emotional vulnerability – even though your current relationship is strained to say the least – but do you have any concrete indications that he has been taken somewhere against his will?'

Sherlock's eyes darted in their sockets, taking in his surroundings and parsing the information. He could see disturbed sediment and rubbish, as well as several pairs of bootprints scuffed from abrupt movement. A small amount of blood spatter formed dark blemishes on the wall and cautiously, he reached out. The fluid was cool and tacky against his skin, but not completely dry, and a rapid estimate suggested it would coincide almost perfectly with the height of John's head.

'Something happened in the alleyway leading to Cornwall Terrace,' he managed, ignored the rasp of his voice as he moved with shaky finesse, reading the story of the environment as clearly as if it were words on a page. Efforts had been made at concealment, but they were not enough to blind him to the truth. 'John often cuts through here to get home. There are footprints, two – no – three others: he was outnumbered. There are indications of a fight, and I don't believe John emerged victorious.'

He whirled around, heading towards Regent's Park and ignoring the sounds of nearby residences as he stepped out onto the street. Cornwall Terrace was open at both ends, running along the back of various properties, but the narrow alley was not overlooked by any of the buildings. 'CCTV?' he asked, reading the negative answer from Mycroft's silence. 'The next road over is covered by the network. I need information on every vehicle that's exited this street in the past three hours. Large cars, vans and heavy goods vehicles.'

'Sherlock –' Mycroft's conciliatory tone was far from welcome, and he cut him off before he could continue.

'I do not need your platitudes,' he hissed. 'Whoever did this wants me to chase my tail, following their false trails of information, and I have no intention of playing into their hands by wasting time. Goodbye, Mycroft. Contact me when you have something of use to add.'

He hung up without another word, shifting frantically from one foot to the other as he tried to calculate the sum of the parts he had been given. In truth, he wasn't certain that the blood belonged to John, not rationally, but every atom of his being knew better than to doubt it. Between the staged raid of the flat and the subtle, half-hidden proof around him, he knew someone had choreographed this attack, but who?

The buzz of his phone had him glancing down at the device in his grasp, a frown pleating his brow before his heart leapt. The text was from John's number, and for one dizzy moment, he thought perhaps he had been too quick to jump to the worst conclusion. Maybe John wasn't gone after all.

A second later, that hope was smashed by two callous, taunting words.

**"Missing something?"**

The picture beneath showed a man lying on his side, his face half-obscured by shadow. Weathered skin was pale and sick-looking, clammy at first glance, and the rusty stains of dried blood at his temple were overlaid with a fresh, gleaming flow. Bruises on his jaw were starting to darken, suggesting the blows were delivered between ninety minutes and two hours ago, but while Sherlock's mind catalogued the information, his heart shuddered with fear. 

He recognised that face. He had seen it every day for months on end, and every night during painful absences. As much as he longed for it to be anyone else, some innocent bystander whom he could pretend was nothing more than a statistic, he couldn't turn away from the truth.

It was John.


	3. Chapter 3

Consciousness found him slowly, seeping in around the frontiers of blissful oblivion. It encroached like a tide, pushing John towards the point where memory ignited, firework-bright. Air flooded his lungs, dragged in by a gasp born of adrenaline's surge. His eyes flew open, the crust of blood and salt at their seams ripping out a few lashes as he groaned in discomfort.

He was lying on a cold, stone floor, the chill seeping in through his cheek and making a nest in his skull. His arm throbbed with a stubborn, horrible ache, and his wrists were tied behind his back, straining his shoulders. Dizziness washed through him when he tried to move, and John swore under his breath, ignoring the hitch of a panicked sob as he took stock.

The events of the day were cluttered and disorganised. He recalled the argument with Sherlock perfectly, the scene replaying in his mind even as he wished he could forget all about it. It was what had happened in the alley and, later, the van that seemed blurred at the edges. He remembered getting jumped and vague, threatening words that left something unsettled in his gut. Judging by the pasty flavour in his mouth, he'd been drugged, and a concussion grated through his temples.

God, the gits who'd taken him hadn't been gentle. John faintly pictured the leader calling off one of the others, but the one in charge had been driving, and he'd done nothing to stop his colleagues putting the boot in during the journey. John had the foggiest impressions of hovering on the verge of blackness, roused only by every new bolt of pain.

Swallowing weakly, he took another breath as he catalogued the damage. Ignoring his arm and his head, which were both agonisingly blatant, he concentrated on more subtle sensations. His knuckles stung from the punches he'd delivered, and his ribs hurt in a way that suggested fractures. Various bruises added their thunder of discomfort to the storm, and one of his eyes was swollen from a lucky punch. 

It wasn't ideal, but at least he was functional. He couldn't reach up and check, but he was fairly sure that the wounds on his head had stopped bleeding. He must have been out for a while, possibly even long enough for Sherlock to miss him.

John's heart twisted, logic interceding with the cold truth of reality. Sherlock had all but kicked him out of the flat. He wouldn't think it strange when John didn't come home. He wasn't expecting him back, and even if he were, after what they'd said to each other, would he bother to come looking?

A small voice in John's head told him he was being ridiculous; of course Sherlock would search for him. Friendship couldn't be switched on and off. It decayed, inch by inch, but at any moment the right word could bring about its revival. The hope was a frail one, but he clung to it, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge that perhaps too much time had passed to allow such a resurrection. He had to think about this latest fight as a glitch – something that could be healed – rather than a death-blow. 

Taking a deep breath, he fought to concentrate. Whether Sherlock was coming or not, he had no intention of sitting here to await rescue – not if there was a chance he could get out by himself. However, to stand any hope of escape, he needed to examine his surroundings, and that meant he had to bully his uncooperative frame into movement. 

Clenching his teeth, he worked through the sharp arrows of pain, struggling to sit up. A retch caught in his throat, brought on by the hideous waltz of the world. With an oily gulp, he struggled for control, ignoring the explosion of cold sweat across his skin as he sucked in lungfuls of air. Warm wetness crept down his cheek, and he tried to wipe it away on his shoulder, only to grunt as the change in position sent fire along his broken arm.

After a few minutes, panting and dizzy, he peeled his eyes open again, blinking to clear his vision as he examined the room in which he'd been placed. His blood stained the floor, a few rivulets having dried in a half-hearted attempt to reach a small, square drain in the middle. Above his head a single bulb shone. Its illumination gleamed off a number of wicked hooks suspended from bolts, and John frowned at them in confusion before examining the walls. No windows greeted his efforts, and there was only one door, which looked like it belonged in a vault. The thick, stainless steel was starting to rust in places and the hinges were huge. Was he in some kind of bunker? 

There were a series of vents on the back wall, too small for a man to fit through, and the grills covering them were corroded. One trailed some sickly-looking moss from its grate, and something wet and chemical seeped down the metal-clad walls. The whole room looked like it had been built to survive a nuclear war. Only the hooks made him think twice, and he winced as he finally managed to identify the true nature of his prison.

A meat freezer, used for storing the carcasses of slaughtered animals. He supposed he should be grateful that the damn thing was turned off and the tines hung empty, rather than being loaded with sides of beef or pork.

The place had been swept clean. There was nothing he could use as a weapon, and no sharp corners to provide a means of escape from the electric cable that bound his wrists. Only his legs were free. Clearly his captors were confident that no amount of kicking would get him out of here.

Slowly, he eased his way over to the wall, leaning his weight against it and bracing his feet on the floor. His knees trembled with the effort, but eventually he managed to shuffle upright, resting heavily on his unhurt arm as he waited for the room to settle. 

The only thing in the whole damn place of any use was the wicked, scythe-like shapes jutting from the ceiling. Perhaps if his arm wasn't broken and his wrists weren't tied at the base of his spine, he'd have been able to reach above his head and use the honed metal to slice through his restraints. However, no matter how much he wriggled, he couldn't loosen up his limbs and allow his body to contort. With a sigh, John tipped his head back, blinking blearily as he tried to come up with an alternative. 

If Sherlock were here, he'd know what to do.

The thought was a cold comfort, only serving to remind him that the man he had always relied upon might not come, and who did that leave to miss John's presence? Lestrade, wrapped up in that kidnapping case? Harry, who was probably passed out drunk for the night? Mary?

John sighed, trying to control the spike of panic in his breathing. 'Stop,' he whispered, latching onto the ragged sound of his own voice. It was gravelly and hoarse, but other than the occasional clank from the ventilation shafts, nothing disturbed the chafing silence. Perhaps the concussion was interfering with his thought processes, but John suspected it was fear that made him continue speaking, fortifying statements of encouragement interleaved with calming platitudes, all for his ears only.

'It could be worse. You know if Sherlock was caught up in this shit as well you'd be worried about him. He wouldn't have gone down without a fight; he'd be hurt. At least this way, you're the only casualty.' He swallowed tightly, hating the pragmatism of both a soldier and a doctor that shone out in his rationalisations. 'You need to think. What would he do? What would he look for?'

_A way out, obviously._

John tried to ignore the way his internal reply sounded like Sherlock, exasperated and amused at his expense. It was more reassuring than it had any right to be, and John squared his shoulders, wincing before he looked at the room again, trying to see something he'd missed. 

The door was the only exit, and he grimly examined strong, multiple hinges and rust-pitted rivets. It didn't look like it would succumb to any force he had the strength to use. The inner face was smooth, unmarked by a lock, and he cursed as he realised that the handle to open it was undoubtedly on the outside. No amount of staring was going to alter the truth: he was stuck in here.

'What now?' he asked himself, wishing his hands were free so he could rub away the tacky blood on his face, or at least hold his aching head in his palms. This kind of situation happened far too often for his liking, and he didn't have the benefit of stupid abductors. These bastards knew what they were doing, that much was evident.

Another memory stirred, and John frowned as he recalled the leader, Baz, saying that they needed him alive if they wanted Sherlock to look for him. As opportunities went, it was a long-shot, but John took comfort in the fact that he wasn't expendable, not yet, anyway. If he was fortunate, it meant they'd hesitate to use more than necessary force. Perhaps that was something he could manipulate to his advantage.

Sherlock once said that the biggest weakness in any situation was the people. His words were crystal clear, imbued in John's mind.

_'When all else fails, wait for your adversary to make a mistake. They'll over-estimate their abilities, or fail to appreciate the depth of yours. They'll grow complacent with every hour of continuing success, and that makes them fallible. Then you strike.'_

It was the first time since Sherlock's return that John stopped to consider what he had done during his absence. For once, he'd felt a shuddering clench of concern and sympathy, rather than anger, when he thought of those months that Sherlock had been on his own.

Clearly, he spoke from experience, and John wanted to ask what had happened, how long Sherlock had struggled, what he had been through... Instead, he'd bitten his tongue and turned away.

Now, he wished he'd spoken up, because perhaps that was one of the mistakes that had led them to this point. Had John's desperate longing not to care been the crowbar that pulled the cracks of their friendship apart?

Pursing his lips, he tried to blank his mind. There'd be time to consider that later, to hash it all out, but first he had to get out of here.

Inching along the wall, he jammed himself in the corner of the room, the one near the door, rather than opposite. He didn't want to be visible from the threshold. The chances of getting the jump on anyone were slim – he was outnumbered and his hands were tied – but he had to try. 

Frantic plans, no more substantial than dreams, drifted through his head as he waited, ears straining for any sound of movement outside. He had no idea how much time he spent there, deliberately concentrating on his immediate situation. If he didn't, he would slip back into considerations of Sherlock, and right now he couldn't afford that distraction.

At last, noises beyond the door made him raise his head, forcing his bleary eyes to focus as he attempted to comprehend what his senses were telling him. There was more than one set of footsteps, but both were measured and confident. Whoever was coming knew there was nothing to threaten them within this small room. 

John's thighs tensed, his split lip stinging as a sneer twisted his mouth. He was about to prove them wrong.

The lock gave a heavy clank as it disengaged, and he watched the door part. It was not flung wide, but inched open; his attackers had no intention of maximising his only escape route. 

Every muscle screamed at him, his mind a seething mass of adrenaline and anger, but in the space of a second, the equation of the situation changed.

Weak light gleamed off the barrel of a gun, its metal form steady in a capable hand. John couldn't work out what kind of pistol it was, but it shot his plan to pieces. If he lunged now, he'd probably end up dead for his trouble. Better to put his captors at their ease, loosen the grip on the weapon and then get it away from them if he could. 

As strategies went, it was seriously lacking in detail, but John clung to the possibilities as he let his shoulders drop and his body hunch, his entire posture submissive. However, he didn't lower his gaze; he wasn't that stupid. Besides, he needed to know exactly what he was up against. 

The red-haired one entered first, the gun tight in his grasp as his hazel eyes skimmed the environment before settling on John. He didn't react in any way except to swing the weapon in his direction, keeping him in his sights while his accomplice stepped in behind him. John had been hoping for Baz, the leader, who seemed to have higher priorities than mindless violence, but it was the other one. The one who'd broken John's arm.

Mitchell, his hazy memory supplied, though the name didn't tell him anything he didn't already know. Everything important was written on Mitchell's face, from the leer baring his teeth to the scar on his cheek. There were a couple of bruises on his jaw, and John felt a hint of triumph at the knowledge that he was responsible for those injuries. However, it was short-lived as he noticed the chain in the man's hands. The links shone dully, connecting two old fashioned manacles, and John stared at them with growing trepidation.

'Should have known you'd be huddled in the corner like an animal,' Mitchell jeered, doing something to the door to stop it locking behind them as he pulled it shut. His voice sounded as if he smoked several packets a day, and the stink of cigarettes thickened the air. 'For a minute, I thought we had a fighter on our hands.' He nudged his companion, who neither blinked nor smiled, and Mitchell's grin twisted into a sinister line. 'Looks like we already beat that out of you.'

John kept his face blank, sparing a glance for the gun. 'What are you going to do?'

His body may have been cowed, but his voice was strong. The words were harsh between his bloodied lips, not tainted by fear or doubt. Defiance John didn't feel underpinned every syllable with the implication that whatever happened, he wouldn't back down.

It sounded good, threatening, despite his posture, and John saw second-thoughts flicker in the gunman's gaze. He was the one with enough common sense to realise that John was no craven hostage. Mitchell, on the other hand, merely grinned, incredulous, and stepped into John's personal space.

'A photo opportunity. Something to make that clever faggot of yours run, fast and hard, along the trail we've set up for him.' Something must've shown on John's face, because Mitchell gave a brief bark of laughter. 'Oh, don't get your hopes up. We're not leading him _here_. He won't clap eyes on you again. See, he'll think he's rushing to your rescue, and instead he'll turn up at the gas works, where someone'll be waiting.' He shrugged, wrinkling his nose in a parody of delight before forming two fingers into the shape of a gun and pressing them to his temple. 'It'll be “Goodnight, Mr Holmes.” Once that's done, we'll put you out of your misery.' He glanced down John's body and back up again. 'Well, eventually. Might as well have some fun with you first.'

'Piss off,' John spat, his shoulder-blades digging into the wall as his lumbering mind raced into top gear. 

Mitchell sniggered, the chains in his hands clanking as he looked at the bloke holding the pistol. 'Hear that, Nate? He seems to think he's got some kind of say in this.' The crooked grin faded, his eyes turning flat and cold as cruelty scored deep lines across his brow. 'I think we ought to show him otherwise. If he doesn't do what he's told, shoot him.'

Nate nodded once in mute comprehension, stoic and unmoved. John would give anything to see a twitch of nerves in his aim, but it was professional and competent. He hoped to God that they were bluffing – that he'd been right in his guess that they wouldn't kill him outright – but seeing the muzzle pointed unfalteringly at his skull, John had to admit he had his doubts.

'Face the wall,' Mitchell ordered, the silky slide of a flick-knife whispering in John's ears as he did as he was told, his heart in his throat. 'We need this to look good, and I know just how to do it, but we'll have to chain your arms in front of you.' The blade dug in behind John's jaw, breaching his flesh in warning. 'I'd tell you not to try anything stupid, but you know what? Go ahead.' He dropped his voice, his lips brushing the shell of John's ear as his body covered John's back, pressing him into the wall with a lewd thrust of his hips. 'I'm looking for any excuse to make you bleed.'

John swallowed, trying not to inhale the stench of tobacco and sweat as he chewed his lip. It was hard to keep his shoulders relaxed and his body weak, hiding any sign of his intention. Timing was crucial. He didn't give a shit about Mitchell’s threats, and he could even ignore the ominous presence of the gun, but if he acted a second too early, then he'd suffer for the mistake.

The knife hacked through the cord tying his wrists together, slitting his skin as it did so. His little noise of pain only made Mitchell croon, and John fought back nausea as he counted down the seconds with his racing heart. Just a little more...

The instant the restraints slackened, he whipped his good arm forward, pressing his hand to the wall and shoving back with all his strength. Mitchell was right behind him, too lost in his lecherous enjoyment of John's submission to realise he was blocking Nate's shot. There was a cry of rage as John bowled them over, violently pushing all thoughts of weapons from his mind as he landed on top of Mitchell and lashed out, half-wild in desperation.

With a bark, the gun fired. A single bullet sparked off the metal walls, but there was no flash of pain to signal it finding its target. John took that as a blessing as he attacked, his right foot connecting hard with Nate's knee before hooking behind it and yanking forward. The joint folded like a house of cards, dumping the gunman on the floor with a profane shout. John slammed his heel into Nate's wrist, smiling as the pistol skittered away.

Mitchell was still struggling to get up, scrabbling at John's jumper with crimson hands and yelling abuse, but his movements were stuttered and clumsy. There was no opportunity to assess the situation. The door was open. If he could incapacitate them both, then he'd only have Baz to contend with, and frankly, he liked those odds. All he had to do was get the gun.

That was easier said than done. Everyone in the room had the same idea. Nate was already standing, clutching his leg miserably as John struggled to get his feet under him. Mitchell kept trying to roll him over, aiming mercilessly for every injury that made John weak. He clung to his broken arm and drove a knee into John's ribs, forcing the air from his lungs with a single blow. Fingers tangled in his hair, but before Mitchell could follow through, John tore himself away, pulling back his left fist and slamming it down into his opponent's face.

A howl of pain resonated through the room as blood spurted from Mitchell's nose, thick and glutinous, yet John had no time to revel in his small victory. His body screamed at him, new bruises burning where they flourished, but he pushed himself onwards, diving across the floor in a frantic effort to reach the gun before Nate could get to it first.

For one, joyous second, he thought he'd managed it. Cool metal kissed his palm, lost beneath the scrabble of competing hands. The two of them wrestled; Nate was stronger and more whole, but despair made John determined. He fought with everything he had, kicking and biting whatever he could reach, raking his nails over Nate's face and aiming for his eyes.

Yet it wasn't enough. His arm was his downfall, too agonising to use and too weak to maintain a proper grip on the slick metal. All it took was one slip of his bloodied, sweat-soaked palm, and Nate wrenched the gun away. He pinned John down with his left hand while the right took the firearm, his finger finding the trigger without hesitation.

The room filled with panting breaths, racing back and forth like an ocean. John scowled as he cradled his throbbing arm against his chest, trying to ignore the thrum of his heart. His teeth were gritted, holding back the pleas that coated his tongue. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of begging for mercy, not now. Not even if they killed him without speaking another word.

'You fucking shit,' Mitchell spat, blood dripping down his face as he wobbled to his feet. His eyes flashed with callous fury before he groaned. 'Look at what you did.'

John shrugged, not caring about the bastard’s nose, or the long, shallow gash in his stomach from the knife he had been holding. He'd expected the blade in his own back when he pushed Mitchell down with such haste, but thankfully the fall had driven the sharp edge into Mitchell's soft belly instead. It wouldn't kill him, unfortunately, but at least John could get satisfaction from knowing he'd caused some pain.

'Should I shoot him?' Nate asked.

John saw temptation shadow Mitchell's face – a thirst for petty vengeance. However, after a moment that seemed to stretch for years, he shook his head, bending down to pick up the manacles from the floor. 'Just make sure he doesn't do anything like that again.'

The cool halo of the barrel jammed into John's grazed temple, making him hiss. His mind was skittering back and forth, jumping from one aborted idea to another in a fit of fear, but nothing came to him. Any move he made now would result in an evacuated cranium. He'd had his chance, but he'd lacked the strength to follow through. Now all he could do was wait and hope that, sooner or later, the odds would again be stacked in his favour.

Mitchell's chubby fingers grabbed his wrist, snapping one thick, unforgiving cuff closed before he jerked John's broken arm forward. His cry burst forth from behind gritted teeth, and his glare in Mitchell’s direction was met with nothing but contempt. 'Believe me, it's gunna hurt a lot more in a minute,' the man promised, yanking hard as John struggled before closing the second restraint. There was about eight inches of chain, enough to use as a brutal garrotte, but before John could do more than consider it, the gun had switched owners, settling like a viper in Mitchell's grasp.

'Arms above your head,' he urged, flicking the pistol meaningfully as John obeyed, pushing through the pain that radiated along every nerve. He already had an idea where this was going, and the words stumbled forth in a sudden flood as he followed Mitchell's gaze to one of the hooks.

'You might as well just shoot me. Hang me up there, and I'll be dead in an hour.'

'Positional asphyxiation.' Nate's reply was matter-of-fact, and John glanced in his direction, seeing nothing like apology in his face. The taller man stood on tiptoes, reaching up and doing something that John couldn't see. The hook dropped along its stem with a sibilant rush, clanking to a halt, and Nate waved a hand in demonstration. 'We'll kill you when we're ready. Not before.'

John tensed, flinching back, but there was nowhere to run; the weapon in Mitchell's hand made sure of that. His ribs screamed as Nate hefted him from the ground, a broad, strong hand pulling his arms up against his will so that the chain of the manacle looped over the point of the hook.

The moment Nate stepped away, agony seized John's frame. It roared in his head and sang in his veins. His chest throbbed and his arm ached hideously. He could hear his pulse in his ears, almost drowning out the frantic scuffle of his boots against the floor. His breathing stuttered and wheezed, compromised, until he managed to get his balance on the balls of his feet, taking some of his body's weight. It wasn't enough to spare his arm from torment's flames, but the muscles that aided breathing still functioned with some level of efficiency.

Pity, he thought bitterly, because right now he was tempted to drop dead out of spite.

'Smile for the camera,' Mitchell sneered, the white light of the flash ricocheting around the room as John flinched.

'Fuck you,' he hissed, shaking from the strain of his position and the rashes of heat and cold prickling through his body.

'Maybe later.' His voice was vile with promise, and John's lips twisted as he continued, 'Why don't you hang around? I'll be back before you know it.'

Mitchell turned towards the door, letting Nate go through first as he hesitated. His hand brushed across the shallow cut in his stomach. Thoughtfully, he wiped his swollen nose, staring at the gore that stained his fingertips before squinting back at John.

The shot was abrupt, loud in the confines of the room, but not as overwhelming as the sudden flare of brighter pain. John cried out, unable to stop himself, his entire body tensing like a man on the rack. His chest heaved, and involuntary tears trickled down his cheeks as he panted and swore. 

'A little bit of payback,' Mitchell said by way of explanation, lowering the gun and admiring the spread of blood through the denim of John's jeans. 'Just a flesh wound to be going on with, and don't worry.' He leaned around the door, doing something out of John's sight. A moment later, the vents whirred to life, the flow of stagnant, brackish air bitterly cold across John's nape. 'Before long, you'll be too cold to bleed.'

John spat something insensible, but Mitchell's only response was a laugh as he shut the door, bolting it behind him with all the finality of the last seal on a crypt. Not that this would be John's final resting place, not for a while. A human body could hurt a lot before it died, and even suffused in a symphony of physical distress, he knew this was only the tip of the iceberg. 

His wounds required treatment, but they weren’t imminently fatal, not even the bullet's destruction, which scored through the meat of his outer thigh. Only the trauma to his head provided a fragment of the unknown, but he wasn't exhibiting any sign of a serious brain injury. At least, not yet.

Right now, the two biggest threats to his existence were breathing complications from his current posture, or hypothermia due to the rapidly falling temperature in the room. Either one was a slow and unpleasant way to go, and John bowed his head, trying to think around the growing swell of panic.

He had to get himself down, but Nate had positioned him perfectly. It was too high for him to stand further on tiptoe and ease the chain free. Perhaps if he could pull himself up and jolt, he could yank the links loose or knock the hook from its mooring? It was a pathetic solution, but what other choice did he have?

Trembling with the strain, John drew up his knees, trying to take most of his weight on his uninjured arm, but it was useless. There simply wasn't the functional strength in his body for him to use it to its maximum capacity. For the first time in his life, he understood why an animal might chew off a limb to free itself from a trap. His broken arm would be the death of him, sooner or later. 

A rough sound escaped his throat, and John put his feet back on the floor, shaking his head and dragging in whining gasps of air. He was out of options, and soon enough, he would be out of time as well. 

The clank of the vents punctuated the silence, almost drowning out his rasping words as they shuddered in the icy air. It was more a prayer than anything else, uttered not to God, but to the one man who, even after everything, still inspired a frail kind of faith.

'Please, Sherlock.' His throat clicked as he swallowed, and when he spoke again, his voice shook.

'Get me out of here.'


	4. Chapter 4

Stale coffee and cigarette smoke permeated the air of Lestrade's office, stifling yet familiar. Three half-empty mugs, full of stone-cold dregs, surrounded the keyboard, picked up only to be discarded as other priorities reached the top of the pile. Sherlock barely glanced at the information they had to offer about the DI's mental state before nudging them out of the way and settling in the chair behind the computer screen. John's Sig shifted where it nestled in his waistband, but Sherlock put aside the weighty reminder as he got to work.

The password was hardly inventive, and within minutes he had opened up the GPS tracking software the Yard favoured. It wasn't as powerful as the one Mycroft used, nor the one Sherlock had installed on his now destroyed laptop, but it was easily accessible, and would hopefully tell him what he needed to know.

His blood jangled through his veins, dousing him hot and cold in equal measure. His fingers shook, the fine tremors drawn out by the buzz of merciless adrenaline. He should have thought of this sooner. Precious minutes had already vanished as he stood in the alley, staring with increasing horror at the picture of John, bloodied and bruised, that had appeared on his phone.

The kidnappers had used John's mobile, probably in part to protect themselves, but also to drive home the identity of the man they held in their grasp. It was a power play: _we have him; you do not_. However, perhaps that folly would be the fatal flaw in their design.

They had already demonstrated an inconsistent attention to detail. The destruction to 221B was a masterpiece in itself, but only on the surface. A deeper glance showed the flaws. Falsifying evidence that would fool anyone other than Anderson required forward-thinking and skill. It needed the creation of patterns within apparent disorder, and it was there they had failed. The conclusion was obvious: whoever had abducted John was moderately intelligent, but by no means perfect.

In all likelihood they had turned off the GPS on John's phone, but had they bothered to check for third party tracking devices?

Sherlock had put the chip there himself. It was the work of an hour, at most, to obtain the ability to pinpoint John's whereabouts: a logical decision, considering how often they were separated by those who intended to do them harm. Of course, John had changed his phone while Sherlock was away, necessitating re-installation. 

He had hesitated, wondering if the invasion of privacy was too great. John had Mary and a life beyond Sherlock's social sphere. Was it really his place to keep tabs on a man who would not react to such actions with gratitude? 

Such considerations had not held him back for long. Moriarty might be dead and gone, the ashes of his network scattered to the wind, but the threat remained. However far John went, however many miles and years he put between them, he would still be in danger thanks to his time spent with Sherlock. As such, he had taken the only logical course of action. John could shout at him until he was blue in the face, but if the alteration led Sherlock to him in time to save him from further pain, then he could not bring himself to regret his choice.

With a few quick clatters, he input the relevant information, his eyes narrowing as his heart hammered in his chest. He was not a praying man, being neither devout nor well-blessed with faith, but that did not stop a single plea escaping his lips to stir the air.

'Come on. Find him. Please.'

Using the authorised GPS on John's phone gave him nothing, confirming his suspicions that the abductors had some semblance of intelligence. Enough to cut off the most obvious ties that could give away their location. He was just entering the applicable data to pick up any broadcast from his own tracking system when Lestrade's door opened, admitting the DI and his equally harassed sergeant.

'Oi!' Lestrade's protest was more weary than venomous, and out of the corner of his eye Sherlock saw him press both of his hands to his face, burying his features behind his palms before dragging his fingers downwards and jamming his knuckles on his hips. 'What the hell are you doing, Sherlock? My door was locked, and that machine was password protected.'

He allowed a single, disbelieving glance to speak for him, burdening it with the implication that nothing the Yard could offer by way of security was impassable. 'Did you find the boy?'

'We're still looking,' Donovan said, her words clipped and harsh. 'We've come up with a few leads, no thanks to you.' Explicit accusation underscored her tone, as if she felt he was being deliberately obstructive to the investigation.

'Good.' Sherlock scowled, pressing his fingertips to the pain that bloomed at his temple as he waited for the satellites to triangulate. He didn't notice Lestrade shift closer, peering over his shoulder to see what he was doing.

'Are you tracing him?' he demanded, his warm presence soon amplified by Donovan crowding into the small space behind Sherlock. 

'Nicholas has neither a phone in his possession nor any kind of microchip implant. Surprising, considering the paranoia of his mother. Even if he did, any abductor would know to search for the device and remove it.' Without turning away from the computer, he flicked his thumb over his phone screen and held it up so they could see.

'Christ,' Lestrade breathed, taking the mobile from Sherlock's palm. 'John. What happened to him? Where is he?'

'If I knew that, would I be here?' he replied coldly, glancing in their direction to take in the pallor of Lestrade's face and the worried pinch of Donovan's lips. Perhaps he should have broken the news more gently – to the DI at least, who considered John a friend – but he did not have time to waste on such civility.

'John was taken from one of the alleys near Baker Street. Our flat was tossed in an effort to distract me from pursuit. The attempt was obviously unsuccessful.' He pursed his lips, feeling a wash of confusion and shock from the two behind him. 'That message was sent from John's phone. I'm endeavouring to locate it.'

It took a while for anyone to speak, and when Lestrade did, it was with the shaky logic of a man used to operating within the parameters of a crisis. 'We'll get Dimmock on it. Someone who's worked with you before. If I was on anything but an abduction case, I'd pass it off, but ...'

'Support from the Yard won't be necessary.' 

Glassy silence fell, interrupted only by the distant noises from the rest of the building. 'What are you talking about?' Donovan demanded at last, her voice taut with disgust. 'That man, your friend, is caught up in God knows what and you don't want our help?'

'At this point, procedure will only hinder any useful course of action,' Sherlock retorted, his jaw tight as he glared at her. He had no idea what his expression depicted, but the sergeant and Lestrade bowed their heads, looking away. 'John doesn't have time for us to do this by the book. Mycroft's assisting me. You concentrate on finding Nicholas.' If either of them noticed his use of the victim's name, they did not mention it. 

'Fine.' Donovan glanced at Lestrade and shrugged before looking back at Sherlock. 'Have it your way.' She gestured to the computer monitor. 'It's found something, but...' She trailed off, and it only took a moment to see why. The Yard's tools were adequately precise, but the current marker indicated the phone was in the main channel of the Thames.

'Maybe they ditched the mobile after taking that photo?' Lestrade suggested, leaning in to examine the map overlay. 'There's no bridge there or anything. Is this real-time?'

'Yes, but the chip wouldn't transmit from the bottom of the river.' Sherlock examined and dismissed the possibilities as his eyes strayed to the banks, searching for docks. 'They could be using a boat, though the floor on which John is lying is cement, so it's unlikely he's being held on one. Potentially, they're saving the photographs and sending them from a different place, but there'd be signs of movement from the tracking device. This is fixed.'

He took his phone back from Lestrade's limp hand, dialling Mycroft's number with a sense of defeat. His brother picked up on the first ring, and Sherlock didn't bother with a greeting as he read out coordinates. 'Check what's there. It's not quite in the centre of the shipping channel, but there may be an stranded vessel.'

'What are you expecting to find?'

Sherlock closed his eyes, bitterness sharp in his gut as he voiced the most logical conclusion. 'The GPS chip I installed in John's phone. I think it's been discovered, extracted and rigged to a power source: another distraction. However, whatever it's floating on could provide us with useful data.'

Mycroft gave a hum of affirmation, and Sherlock pictured him dispatching minions with the wave of a hand. No doubt that was an overly simplistic view of how his brother ruled over his domain, but there was no denying that Mycroft got the job done far quicker than the Yard could manage.

'Two vehicles that match the criteria left Cornwall Terrace in the time frame you specified. One I have already cleared – a genuine delivery van. The other was stolen and abandoned at Littlebrook Power Station.' Mycroft's voice hardened. 'The entire vehicle was suspiciously clean. There was very little to be found, apart for a small sample of blood.'

'John's?'

'Yes.'

Sherlock's chest stuttered, and he stifled the twist of his stomach as he got to his feet, grabbing a dry marker and striding over to the laminated map of London that Lestrade kept on the wall of his office for this purpose. Quickly, he circled pertinent areas, attempting to build patterns and loci as Mycroft continued to speak. 

'It was stolen from a builder's yard yesterday night. The tools in the back – of significant value – were left on-site.'

'They only wanted the transport. Where was it before they took it?'

'Twickenham Road,' his brother replied.

The mark went down on the chart, and Sherlock lowered his head, considering the obvious distribution. 'The van used to abduct John was stolen from a street less than a quarter-of-a-mile from where the kidnapped boy was taken. Subsequently, it was dumped near Greenhithe, which has already been implicated in the abduction investigation.' He said it out loud, as much for the benefit of Lestrade and Donovan as Mycroft.

His words had the desired effect. Behind him, the helpless paralysis of the two officers shook loose, spurring them to action. Donovan all but ran from the room, returning breathless and flushed with a transparent sheet rolled under her arm. On its glossy surface were a number of circles showing the buildings and streets relevant to Nicholas' kidnapping. Within a minute, she pinned it up over the map, and the correlation became obvious.

'Then it appears your cases are linked.' A regretful sigh whispered down the line. 'John was taken to remove your focus from finding the boy – an effort exacerbated by the trail of inconsequential information you were clearly meant to follow. It seems they underestimated you.' 

Sherlock blinked, detecting the faintest trace of pride in Mycroft's voice. 'A common mistake,' he replied, rubbing his hand across his forehead. 'Call me as soon as you can confirm my suspicions about the GPS. Since both investigations are connected, it's presumable that finding John will lead us to the boy, or vice versa. I'll see if I can derive a more precise target from what the Yard have found.'

'Very well, but Sherlock,' Mycroft's voice developed a new intensity, 'these individuals are showing a complex methodology. Do not make the same assumptions of them that they have of you. Do not misjudge their competence. The price of that mistake could be more than you can tolerate.'

'I know what's at stake, Mycroft. You do your part, and I'll do mine.' He disconnected without another word, placing the phone on the edge of Lestrade's desk before taking in the office. It appeared to have become a temporary incident room during his conversation, full of files and the occasional box of miscellany. Donovan entered once more with her arms full, kicking the door shut behind her before bending to place a final pile of documents on the floor. 

'So we're looking for both John and the boy – Nicholas Miller.' She indicated the map. 'It might still be circumstantial, but we can't ignore a pattern like that.'

'No. However, we can assume the child is alive. A body is easy to move, easy to hide – they could shift it around and always be one step ahead, yet there is no proof of such behaviour. A prisoner is another matter. He, like John, is probably captive and under guard. Whoever did this took John once my involvement became clear, in the hopes of removing my attention from the kidnapping.'

'With false evidence,' Lestrade added. 'A messed up flat and a GPS signal that leads nowhere. How do we know whether any of this is real? What if it's all planted?'

'They don't have time to be that precise.' Sherlock reached for one of the files. 'Their genuine crime scenes are cleaned and obscured as much as possible. We barely found anything at the boy's residence, and the vehicle in which they transported John was hastily detailed. The alley from where he was taken was much the same: signs of a struggle mostly obliterated by scuffing feet.' He skimmed through the dense text, forcing himself to concentrate on the words as he added, 'When they're trying to mislead us, they leave behind a mass of information, very little of which is useful. Do you have any suspects?'

Lestrade and Donovan shared a glance, one which spoke volumes. They had theories, but they lacked information to turn vague suspicions into anything probative. 'You said it had to be someone close to the family, right?' the DI asked, perching a hip on the desk and rubbing his hand over his jaw. 'Thing is, we've checked, and there's no one obvious. Business acquaintances...'

'What business?' Sherlock asked as he inspected photographs from the scene, absorbing as much as he could as Donovan answered his question.

'Shipping and logistics. It's all the wife's – Samantha Miller. She's no stupid socialite. A self-made woman, she's teetering on the brink of Forbes' top one-hundred. Money's no object.'

'That doesn't mean this crime isn't motivated by greed.' He cast his mind back as he tried to catalogue the minutia he had gleaned from the mother and her husband. 'Judging by the immaculate wedding ring, she's newly married to a significantly younger man. They recently moved into Richmond – there were numerous packing boxes in the recycling. They can't have been there more than a month.'

'Sounds like she was starting a new life.' Donovan arched an eyebrow, her expression sick. 'Maybe her kid didn't fit in with that.'

'You think she did it?' Lestrade asked, his scepticism apparent as the sergeant shrugged.

'It wouldn't be the first time we've seen it happen.'

'No. No, it's not her. Even if she was able to convincingly portray the hysterical grief she experienced in my presence, her house told its own story. She had not yet unpacked any ornaments except photos of her son, which were everywhere. His bedroom was freshly decorated, every possible need of his met to the detriment of her own. Nicholas was her highest priority.' Sherlock tapped a thumb over an image of the husband. 'That behaviour rarely goes down well with a new spouse.'

He held out the file to Lestrade, watching him read through the scant details. 'Paul Miller. There's nothing ominous we can find on him, though, no priors or anything like that. He used to be in banking, retired early before the stock market went to shit, then got married a couple of years later.'

Sherlock thought back, remembering the gleam of an expensive watch and a diamond tie-pin, but no ring. Of course, there were many reasons a man decided against wearing a wedding band, but Paul was not occupied with any kind of labour where the jewellery could result in lost fingers: no contact with machinery nor intricate work with his hands. He decorated himself with objects of wealth, but chose not to highlight his connection to his wife.

'Check his financial situation,' he urged, nodding when Lestrade promised they were already looking into it. 'He wore numerous expensive accessories, and his suit was tailored, yet there was fraying at the cuff of his jacket, suggesting he is low on funds, or had something more important on which to spend the money.'

'So? His wife is loaded,' Donovan pointed out. 'He could just use her cash.'

'It's possible he believes in supporting himself, rather than turning to his spouse for assistance. However, no one gets to be wealthy without either a massive inheritance or, in the case of Samantha Miller, a shrewd business sense.' 

He steepled his fingers in front of his lips. 'I imagine you'll find that all the bank accounts are in her name, except perhaps one for household purposes, which will contain a minimal amount. Check for a prenuptial agreement, and find out who would benefit from her death. I suspect the husband gets nothing – at least, not while the son's around.' He shrugged, outlining the obvious extrapolation of such a scenario with ease. 'Remove the current centre of her devotion, and either she will fall apart beneath the weight of her loss, or she'll shift all that attention – emotional and financial – to the man she married.'

Sherlock glanced up when his assessment was met with silence, seeing both the sergeant and the DI observing him with twin expressions of horror. 'Well? Is that hypothesis too much of a stretch for you?'

'I wish,' Lestrade grumbled. 'It makes sense, but it's bloody heartless.'

Donovan's lip curled. 'Takes one to know one, I suppose.' She flicked a hand in Sherlock's direction. 'It's not like he's burdened with feelings, is it?'

'Don't,' the DI growled before Sherlock could reply. 'I don't want to hear it, Sally. Track down Paul Miller's history and see if we can make any of this theory into fact. God knows we need some tangible leads, and –'

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by Anderson bursting into the office, his words falling over themselves in his haste. 'Some beat officers found the kidnapper's van dumped off Stanhope Road in Swanscombe. I’ve just come back from doing preliminaries.' The papers in his grasp whispered as his hands shook. 'There are small amounts of blood on the floor in the back, as well as on some rope: human. We're doing DNA, but there was a kid's shoe, like it had fallen off when he was hauled around. Size three, same as the boy.'

'What about the registration?' Lestrade demanded.

'Already done it. It's one of the vans from Miller's main depot in Isleworth. Fairly close to the kid's house. It wasn't reported stolen. We're still running DNA from the steering wheel, but the whole cab stinks of lilac.'

'The mother wore lilac perfume. There was a bottle of it beside the TV. I saw it when she reached for a tissue,' Donovan cut in, smirking in Sherlock's direction. 'Looks like I was right. The kid's surplus to his mum's requirements.'

'So why isn't he dead? Why kidnap him rather than stage an accident?' Sherlock demanded, rolling his eyes and throwing his hands in the air. 'You're seeing what they want you to see! Blood's easy to obtain in order to seed a crime scene. Most likely, the steering wheel has been swept clean: no prints, no DNA. The perfume could simply have been sprayed in the interior in an effort to mislead the investigation. If she genuinely drives the vehicle, the headrest of the seat will be imbued with the fragrance of her scent and shampoo.'

He took a deep breath, his voice hardening. 'However, even if she does use the van on a regular basis, it proves nothing. Use your head; if Nicholas' mother needed to transport him somewhere, then why would he have to be restrained? Why would she use force? Their relationship is blatantly trusting. She could lead him to the slaughter without any difficulty, should she choose to do so.' He shook his head, running his tongue over his teeth in thought.

'But you said yourself he was taken by someone he knew!' Donovan sighed in frustration.

'Exactly. Someone who wouldn't need to tie him up. So the van, with its rope and his blood and his mother's perfume, is nothing but a decoy. He was never in it. I bet the shoe hasn't been worn for ages, either, pulled out of the back of the boy's wardrobe to add to the confusion. When he was taken, he went willingly, and not in that vehicle.'

'All this is getting us nowhere!' Lestrade held up his hands in surrender when Sherlock whipped around, his teeth bared in a snarl.

'It's telling you where not to look. The best way to formulate a convincing lie is to base it on the truth. That's what these people are doing. The evidence you're finding in droves is fabricated, but it's probably only a degree of separation away from reality. You just need to work out how it correlates. If I'm right and the mother has nothing to do with it, then it's possible someone is attempting to incriminate her. I believe that the husband's behind this. He's hired others to do his dirty work. Look hard enough, and you'll find the proof.'

A beep from Anderson's phone interrupted, followed, a heartbeat later, by the judder of Sherlock's mobile on the desk. Picking it up, he stared, his stomach filling with ice as his skin crawled: another message from John's number. 

He wished he could ignore it, blind his eyes, bury his head and pretend this wasn't happening. He didn't want to be standing here, safe in Lestrade's office while John was hidden from him, hurt and bleeding in his name, yet neither did he wish to face whatever digital depiction of damage John's attackers saw fit to convey.

Swallowing tightly, he barely registered Anderson grumbling that the steering wheel was clean of any viable data and the driver's seat bore only a few traces of perfume. Instead, he observed the tremor in his thumb as he pressed it to the screen, opening the message with a simple tap and allowing its contents to unfurl.

**"Hurry."**

The single word only registered at a superficial level. Sherlock's mind was too consumed by the picture, the specifics falling into a black abyss of incomprehension. Logically, he knew it was John, but his entire being balked at seeing him in such a condition. 

For a few seconds his brain lay blank, too shocked to formulate even a basic level of cognisance. However, the reprieve was brief. Like a tsunami, the sight washed through him, leaving him fighting to maintain his composure as he tried to make sense of everything he could observe.

Too much of it focused on John: the strain of his body, the deep lines of pain in his face, the way he was suspended from a hook above his head. His booted feet touched the floor, but only just. His coat was gone, and there were fresh, bloody hand-prints on his pale jumper. Someone had clutched at him, fought him, and Sherlock's flare of pride that John had not easily surrendered faded in the face of his defeat.

Indications of more than one assault littered John's frame. Some stains were dried to rust while others gleamed cardinal red. The line of his arms was mismatched where he hung, suggesting a strained shoulder or a broken bone. There were bootprints at the sides of his torso, faint, dusty echoes, and he knew there would at least be bruises beneath to match, if not worse. A concussion was likely, judging from the cuts and swelling at his temples. Any wound on its own was cause enough for sympathy, but in combination?

Sherlock turned his head, screwing up his eyes as he fought to cast away the influx of information and imagination alike. Every glimpse drove a sharper bolt of sentiment beneath his ribs as the careening chaos of his panic made it impossible to think. 

John's traumas mattered – of course they did – but they could not help Sherlock find him. Each moment he fell victim to emotion was another minute John spent in the hands of his captors. He had to examine the evidence again, and this time he had to see beyond John's pain and suffering to the minuscule clues that would enable him to narrow the scope of his search.

It took all his strength to reconsider the image, and even then his logic formed a thin veneer over the churning well of his horror. Each new fact dropped like a pebble into a pool, creating conflicting ripples that he struggled to master. 

The picture was of John, but small fragments of his environment made themselves known. The nature of the light suggested reflective walls, metal, most likely, while the hook from which he was suspended seemed sharp and strong, designed for bearing weight. The floor was concrete, its surface pitted and flaking...

What else? _What else?_

His eyes skittered from side-to-side, desperate to wring free the truth, but he kept darting back to John's wounded form. The line of his jaw, the haggard profile of his cheek.... useless, and yet he could not tear his attention away.

Abruptly, his gaze caught something: a mismatch amidst the tones of the photograph. There, tangled within the palette of tans, greys and the horrible clash of crimson blood was a hint of sickly green and toxic blue. It was blurred, but not enough to hide it entirely from Sherlock's understanding. The abductors had assumed he'd see John and nothing else. They had never believed he would examine the wall behind his friend's shoulder. And why should they care if he did? He doubted the kidnappers knew what they'd given away.

He lifted his head, hope fever-bright in his chest as he stared at Lestrade before turning to the map. 'The Millers are in shipping and logistics. What are they transporting?'

Donovan was the first to find her voice, soft where Sherlock was used to harsh angles and biting insults. 'All sorts. Whatever's needed. They started in food and branched out. Are you – ' She licked her lips before falling silent, her expression matching the confused scrutiny of Anderson's, as if Sherlock were some unknown creature in a zoo.

It was Lestrade who took a hesitant half-step forward, his hand outstretched. 'Do you need to sit down?' he asked. 'Sherlock, you look fucking awful.' 

He flicked a hand dismissively as his mind slammed into action, linking together one piece after another. His heart bashed against his ribs, and he darted back to Lestrade's computer, pulling up recent satellite data and absorbing it with a glance, speaking all the while.

'Samantha Miller has been in business for years, accruing assets. No doubt properties have been mothballed during times of economic strain.' He rubbed his hands together, the gesture absent-minded as his thoughts raced. 'The concrete in the images of John is chipped and worn, his surroundings functional but in disrepair. What better way to incriminate the wife than use an empty building held in her name?'

'That description fits just about any warehouse in the city,' Anderson cut in, 'and what's this about John? I thought we were looking for the kid.'

'Find one and you find the other.' Sherlock tipped his head, holding out his phone. 'The photograph may be distressing,' he warned absently, blocking out the sharp hisses of indrawn breath and the faint groan of horror that came from Lestrade. 'Hooks like that, metal walls, and a floor crumbling thanks to extreme changes in temperature: that's a meat freezer. The blue coolant leaking down the back wall confirms it.' He licked his lips, frowning at the information in front of him. 'The ventilation systems require certain external structural features.'

'So you're trying to find them on Google maps?' Lestrade asked, sounding strained. 'That could take hours. I don't think John's got that long.'

Sherlock wasn't breathing right, every gasp delivering inadequate oxygen, and he let out a hiss of annoyance on his next exhale. 'It's a process of elimination. The ventilation shafts are behind John. They've been disused for some time, allowing the plant-growth from that vent. For that to take root, the intakes – which are what I'm attempting to locate – will probably face south to south-west, into the prevailing wind.' 

He pointed, picking out four possible sites throughout the city. 'The moss is impossible to identify without taking a closer look, but it must be tolerant of low light and chemical exposure. Very few British species fit those criteria, and those that do tend to be highly localised, which narrows it down considerably. While spores can be carried great distances, there was a high proportion of them in that soil sample I found in Richmond. Add that to the other information we've accrued and...'

He zoomed in on a cluster of three warehouses on the bank of the Thames, halfway between Stone and Greenhithe, dilapidated even from this aerial view. Tension hummed through his body as his breath left him in a rush, his gaze fixed, resolutely, on the one in the centre, where the air intakes were easily visible. 'That's where they're keeping John.'

'Stop!' Lestrade's hand smacked into Sherlock's chest as he turned, fingers splayed to prevent him bolting from the room. 'Even if you're right, and I hope to God you are, you can't go on your own!'

'Then call Mycroft and tell him where I'll be. You and your men need to search the other warehouses in the area. I doubt they'd keep the boy and John in the same place, but it's extremely likely he will be nearby.'

'What makes you say that?' Anderson demanded, waving his hand vaguely. 'You're talking about coolant and – and moss... It's a wild guess.'

'Which is better than nothing!' Sherlock growled, shaking his head as he tried to explain. 'Whoever took John took the boy – certainly the same strategist, and probably the same kidnappers as well. At least three men were necessary to subdue John, and they'd be foolish if they left him without two guards, if not more.' Sherlock shifted restlessly, itching to move. 

'He's an adult, whereas the boy is, in theory, easier to overpower should he put up a fight once in captivity. Assuming there aren't more perpetrators, putting John and Nicholas too far apart geographically would leave the abductors spread too thin, constantly running back and forth.' He gestured to the map. 'The child will be in one of the buildings nearby, definitely within the same complex. Find him, and do it quickly. Once I get to John, they'll know we're onto them. You'll lose any advantage offered by the element of surprise.' 

'But –'

He knocked Lestrade's hand away, rushing off with a parting shot. 'You wanted a lead; I've given you one. Now use it!'

Lestrade and his men would retrieve the boy, one way or the other. There was not room in Sherlock's racing heart to care for his fate. He was too intent on getting to John, his chest brimming with the desperate, frantic need to bring him home to safety.

The passage of time was a tangible weight, pressing at his shoulders and squeezing his ribs in a vice. He shouted for a taxi, ignoring the other traffic as he darted across the road before climbing into the back, his instructions rushed. His mind waltzed with a kaleidoscope of ideas, fracturing and coalescing in a multitude of colours as the Sig dragged its heavy punctuation at the base of his spine.

Mycroft could follow on behind, clearing up as was his wont, but the rescue was Sherlock's responsibility. 

It was in his name that John had been taken, and it was he who would get him back.


	5. Chapter 5

Shivers seized him with tooth-rattling rage as the cold sank its jaws into John's skin. Every breath stuttered in meaningless Morse code, amplifying the pain in his chest. He'd been here too long, his exhales steaming in front of his face as senselessness bit into his extremities. Only his wounds sung their unpleasant solos, a grim target for his hazy attention. More than anything, he longed for the blankness of sleep. His head kept lolling forward, and while he knew that if he dropped off now he may never wake up, John was finding it hard to resist the siren call of oblivion.

The door creaked, making him flinch, and he cracked open his good eye to glare balefully in the direction of the threshold. Temperate air bled inwards, caressing his face, and he tried not to moan in relief. Behind him, the ventilation fans cut off, the pitch of their whines dropping away as they fell still.

'Well, look at that,' Mitchell murmured, his expression pinched. 'You're still conscious. Guess that saves me the trouble of giving you a wake up call.'

John grunted a mirthless laugh, his voice rusty in his throat. He had no doubt that Mitchell's methods would have been unpleasant in the extreme. His head rolled on his shoulders as he attempted to focus on his captors, dimly aware that they were both wearing thick coats. Mitchell's fingers were pale around the gun, but it was the mug in Nate's hands that gave John pause.

The taller man strode forward, his expression neither kind nor cruel. He looked as if he were going about his daily business, like there was nothing remarkable about having a hostage hanging from the ceiling. 'Drink,' he ordered, pressing the cup harshly to John's lips and tipping it so that the hot water lapped at his mouth. Truthfully, it probably wasn't much warmer than normal body temperature, but it seemed scalding as Nate compelled him to swallow or choke. His first fear was drugs, but the fluid tasted clean, flavourless but for the faint tang of blood: his own, no doubt. 

Just as John was starting to relish the moisture, Nate dragged the cup out of his reach. He put it on the floor at his feet, tugging off his gloves before stretching up to check John's fingers. 'No frostbite yet.' His confidence was horrifying, as if he were fully aware of how to chill someone to the bone and then bring them back unharmed. 'His toes might be another story, but probably not. He's wearing socks and gravity will help the blood-flow. If we give him a few minutes to warm up, we can turn it on again.'

Mitchell curled his lips, his footsteps echoing in John's ears as he stepped further into the room. The door remained open in his wake, a tempting glimpse of freedom, and John allowed his gaze to settle on the framed space as rough words washed over him. 

'Well, I guess we'll have some fun. Got to get my kicks somewhere.' He pressed the cold muzzle to John's face, forcing his head to turn. Helplessly, he obeyed, his muscles too numb and sore to offer even token resistance. 'Especially since your other half isn't being very cooperative.'

Sherlock. John's pulse thudded beneath the press of the pistol, and he lifted his head, looking down his nose as a smirk quivered over his face. 'Told you he wouldn't come running. Not for me.'

His head rocked as the barrel whipped into his cheek: a blow that resonated in his bones. 'Shut your mouth,' Mitchell advised, sniffing in disgust as he wiped blood from the metal. 'Maybe we'll get Holmes today, and maybe we won't. Either way, don't think he's going to be saved by your noble sacrifice.' He grinned, winking in Nate's direction. 'We'll catch up to him eventually. Do you think he'll be sorry, when we tell him you're dead? Perhaps he's as heartless as everyone says. You seem to believe it, since you're so convinced he's not coming for you.'

''S my own fault.' John slurred, the words true despite his inarticulate delivery.

'Trouble in paradise?' The trite phrase filled the air, and he had a sudden, vivid desire to kick Mitchell in the face. 'Boring in bed, was he?'

John lifted his chin and bared his teeth. 'I wouldn't know.'

'Oh!' Mitchell rocked back on his heels, thrusting his spare hand into his pocket. 'He doesn't want you! Frigid after all. Your feelings, on the other hand, are obvious. It's written all over your face in every photo in the paper. They said you were engaged to some woman. Had to feel sorry for her, since you clearly didn't give a fuck about anyone but him.'

John lowered his eyes, trying to ignore the other occupants of the room as he struggled to concentrate. There was a reason they were doing this, picking at him, pushing him... For the first time, he could see glimpses of uncertainty beneath their bravado. It wasn't much, written more in the way they held themselves than anything else, hunched and nervous.

'You don't think he's coming either,' he whispered, a hysterical bubble of laughter popping in his throat. His heart shattered, but something comforting still seeped through the cracks. Sherlock may not be hurrying to his rescue, but that meant he was safe – miles away from Mitchell's groping hands and murderous plans. 'All this,' He sniffed, blinking against the cold bite of moisture at his lashes, 'and you chose the wrong bait.'

A cry took flight as Nate drove his fist into John's ribs, sending a lightning storm along his nerves. His knees drew up reflexively before his body slumped, too weak for any kind of defence. He could vaguely hear Mitchell snarling abuse, but he ignored it, too intent on the hurt in his chest that had nothing to do with what his kidnappers dealt out.

No, the dull ache that ricocheted between his heart and his gut was all because of Sherlock.

It was masochistic to cling to it – the abandonment and grief – but he would rather lose himself in that than succumb to the stabs of vicious retribution that assailed his flesh. They aimed for old injuries, digging fingers into split skin and striking at bones already broken. They taunted him with words he barely heard, and through it all John stayed silent, his glares losing their potency as he tucked his mind away in the shadows.

'Fuck it,' Mitchell snapped, jabbing his thumb hard into the tear at John's thigh before turning away. 'You know what? We've got a schedule to keep. One more hour, and then we'll put a bullet in your head whether Holmes comes or not.' He reached around the door, bringing the freezer back to life and smirking at John's weary moan of protest. 'Enjoy your last moments.'

John wished he could spit in his face, but his mouth was dry, dehydrated by every gasp he took. Instead he could only stare as Mitchell and Nate departed, leaving him at the mercy of the fresh wave of winter blowing though the room. 

Life had begun to return to his fingers, but already his blood was receding, leaving numbness in its wake. His exhaustion intensified, making him cough weakly. For God's sake, he was slowly becoming too tired to breathe. Between the position of his arms, taut and strained above his head, and the weight of his hanging legs dragging at his ribs, he couldn't draw in enough air. 

He still stood on the balls of his feet, but his toes were unreliable, any feedback about the surface beneath them uncertain at best. The result was a strange weightlessness. Only pain grounded him, intense and jagged after the latest round of torment; how long did he have before even that began to dissipate from his awareness?

An hour, they'd said. One hour and they'd be back to kill him. That should mean something to him. John was well-acquainted with the human battle for survival. He had seen it every day back in Afghanistan, had experienced it himself – _please God, let me live_ – but now that desperation was sorely absent. There was no adrenaline singing through his veins, no miraculous surges of strength to break him free of his current imprisonment. There was just the sound of his pulse and the bleak air pressing down on him.

Sherlock wasn't coming, and there was nothing John could do to escape. What was the point of fighting the inevitable?

The world turned foggy, like someone toying with a camera lens, and time slipped away, lost amidst disjointed fear and blighting apathy. He felt half sick with himself; his last minutes alive and he could hardly bring himself to care. By the time the door opened once more, he was resigned. All the power had been taken from his hands and the capability leached from his body. He only wished they would spare him their gloating and make it quick. 

Even that, it seemed, was a futile desire.

'Time's up.' Mitchell shrugged, gesturing expansively in demonstration of Sherlock's notable absence. 'I guess he doesn't care.' The instrument of John's destruction shifted in his grip, the safety hammer clicking with undisguised purpose. Helplessly, John braced himself, his mind flaring with panic as he screwed his eyes shut in rejection of what was about to strike. His feet shifted against the floor, the movement gritty and loud as words caught in his dry, swollen throat, fucking useless. 

Of all the ways to go – trapped like an animal and shot like he didn't even matter. 

'Do you think it'll upset him?' John dragged his eyes open again to see his mobile in Mitchell's grip. He was holding it up to take another photo, the flash searing the room as Nate scowled from the corner. 'To know you died like this? Well, I can't deny him the privilege of seeing you one last time, even if it's not in person.' 

He jabbed his thumb into the button that would send the message, his teeth bared in a grin before the smile fell away. Mitchell's shoulders stiffened, levelling the gun at John so that the barrel was aimed between his eyes. Despite himself, John recoiled, his body jerking in an effort to escape, and Mitchell practically purred at his palpable horror. 'Oh, don't worry; one way or another, Holmes will be right behind you. I'll make sure of it.'

Abruptly, a distinctive chime sounded, its brief tune faint and tinny as it rang through the air.

John watched them glance at each other before Mitchell looked down at the mobile in his left hand, perplexed. 'It's not this one,' he said with a shrug. 'I've got it on silent.'

'It's not mine,' Nate replied, holding up one device from each pocket, 'or yours.'

Hope flared in John's stomach, hot and heady, doused almost immediately by the Arctic waters of terror. The two emotions collided, making him dizzy as he twisted his wrists. Mitchell's eyes narrowed in consideration, his chubby fingers fiddling with John's phone and dialling a number. He held the device out, flat in his hand, as he cocked his head to listen.

And there, distant but still audible, came the familiar sound of Sherlock's ringtone.

'Well, it seems he came for you after all,' Mitchell hissed, glancing over his shoulder before passing the weapon to Nate. 'Bring him here. Doctor Watson's been so patient awaiting his rescue; we might as well give them a chance to say their goodbyes.' He licked his lips, a scowl furrowing his brow. 'And be careful. The bastard wasn't meant to find this place. He should have been following our trail back to the gas works at Stone. He's even smarter than we thought.'

John's chest heaved as he raised his voice, yelling out a warning. 'Sherlock! Watch out! He's got a –' Mitchell's hand slapped over his mouth before he could finish, but it didn't matter. His cry resonated around them, filling the metal-lined room. With a snarl, John fought against his chains, his arms burning as he jolted his neck forward, grabbing the flesh of Mitchell's palm between his teeth and biting down.

Blood washed across his tongue, rank and metallic, but John ignored it as he kicked, dragging the side of his shoe down Mitchell's shin. A rush of desperate action scorched the wastes of his indifference. Despite everything he had said and done, Sherlock had come looking for him. 

That knowledge was all John needed to reignite his will to fight.

With a snarl of agony, Mitchell tore himself away, leaving John with crimson-coated teeth. A smack across the side of the head made his ears ring, but John didn't react, watching Mitchell's shoulders heave as he fought for control. He expected another punch of retribution, but the thug drew back, dialling on John's mobile again and holding it to his ear.

John could see him shaking, but it was fear, not anger that blanched Mitchell's face. Blood from his hand dripped on the floor, forming a soft percussion in the eerie calm, but he ignored it as he shifted from one foot to the other, apparently waiting for an answer.

All of a sudden, he jolted forward, pacing restlessly as a glut of words fell from his lips. 'Holmes is here. That wasn't part of the plan. What should we –? Baz? Baz?' Mitchell pulled the phone back, frowning at it in confusion before letting free a stream of curses. 

The crack of a shot cut him off, quickly followed by another. John's breath caught as the roulette wheel of possibility turned. Was Sherlock the gunman, or was it Nate who had fired? Had they both pulled the trigger and taken each other out? John winced, panting as he tried to hear anything beyond the thick walls around him. Mitchell was the same, motionless where he stood as he angled his head in dangerous concentration.

'Don't go anywhere,' he said at last, his nose wrinkling in a grim parody of shaken amusement as he crept out of the freezer, reaching into his pocket for a knife. John had time to see the wicked gleam of its blade before the door slammed shut, locking him in once more.

'Sherlock!' he cried, his voice cracking. There was no one here to silence him now, and he repeated the name in a desperate prayer as his efforts intensified. The manacles clanked and shrieked, scraping against the hook, but nothing John could do was enough to pull himself free. 

Another shot made him pause, his chest heaving. He wanted to cry, to scream, to shout as loud as he could, but his voice was like cut glass, jagged and bitter. His croaked questions were met with uncanny silence, and John hitched in a gasp as he dropped his head, scraping his teeth over his lip. 

All he could do was wait and see who came for him. 

The clank of the bolt made him twitch in surprise, lifting his head to stare as his pulse raced. His body itched with anticipation even as dread sank through his stomach. One way or the other, he wouldn't be here much longer. Either he'd be pulled free of his captivity, or a bullet would extinguish his life and leave nothing in its wake.

The panel swung aside, revealing pale skin, mad curls and a long black coat. There was no mistaking that figure, not when its silhouette was branded indelibly in John's mind.

'Sherlock.'

Relief swamped his frame, bright and purifying, as his lips moved around words of garbled gratitude. Sherlock scanned the room for threats before lowering the Sig. He rushed forward, all strength and fluid grace as he placed the gun on the floor. His hands brushed hotly against John's face, fingertips beautifully tender at the edge of scrapes and bruises before they lifted to the chains around his wrists. 

'John.' Emotion cracked through his name, visceral and shocking before Sherlock bit it back. 'Are you all right? I need to lift you off. You're going to have to guide the links free; can you do that for me?' He spoke calmly, his control apparent, and John latched onto his competence as if it were a life raft. His nod was made ragged by exhaustion, but he didn't have time to speak as lithe arms wrapped around him – his hips, not his ribs, and John wondered if Sherlock had deduced those injuries at first glance – before taking his weight.

Air rushed into his chest, flooding the arid surface of his lungs. He hadn't realised how little he'd been getting until now, but suddenly it was as if his entire body was starved and screaming. 

A few startled, ragged pants later, he remembered he was meant to be pulling the chain free. Uncooperative fingers slipped more than once, but finally he was able to drag himself off the wicked tine that had held him in place for far too long.

'Ah!' His voice garbled in his throat as his strained shoulders protested the change of position. They ached and throbbed as his circulation returned. Shivers ripped through him, making Sherlock swear as he set John back on his feet. Immediately, his knees buckled, his injured thigh flaring as his limbs refused to support him.

He was saved from a painful impact with the floor by Sherlock's split-second reactions. An arm around his waist slowed his descent, holding him up. Whispered reassurances filled John's ears, and he watched Sherlock retrieve the Sig before he allowed himself to be half-carried into the tropical air beyond his prison's confines.

Sherlock leaned John against the wall beside the doorway, easing him down to sit on the floor before crouching at his side. Silver eyes blazed as his hands drifted over John's body, cataloguing one injury after another. 'What hurts the most?' He pressed lightly over broken bones, his touch no heavier than the kiss of a breeze. 'John?'

Long fingers cradled his jaw, easing him up so that they were looking into one another's eyes. It took only an instant to register the expression on Sherlock's face, and John felt like a fool; how had he ever convinced himself that Sherlock didn't care?

Tender concern etched itself into the lines of his features, built on a foundation of vindictive anger aimed at the men who had caused John harm. There was nothing hidden or coy: his brow folded and lips twisted with worry. He looked haggard, with shadows pressed like thumb-prints under his eyes. The riot of his curls was fluffy and disorganised, as if he'd run his fingers through his hair for hours on end. Now John looked closer, he noticed the gash over Sherlock's lip and the cut across his eyebrow, oozing blood.

'You're hurt,' he rasped, pressing his hand to the sharp ridge of Sherlock's cheekbone. Appalled fear made him pull away, his movements frantic as he patted Sherlock's chest. 'I heard gunfire. God, you're not hit are you?' He registered other wounds, grazed knuckles and more than one bruise, but no bullet holes, at least not that he could see. 

Sherlock covered his fingers, giving them a quick squeeze as he spoke. 'No. You're in a far worse state than I am.' 

The heat of his grip was a blessing, and John sagged into Sherlock's frame, shaking feverishly.

'You came for me,' he whispered.

His palm curved around John's nape as if he were something precious. 'You idiot,' he murmured, the insult made into an endearment by the depth of his voice, strained and aching. 'Of course I did.'

Sherlock's head rested on top of his own, enfolding him in a brief cocoon of warm, dark wool. There was a graze of pressure against his crown, feather-light, but before John could parse the sensation, Sherlock shifted back, pressing his forehead gently against John's brow. 

Abruptly, he realised he wasn’t the only one who was shaking. His was a bone-rattling shudder, but Sherlock trembled softly, like a plucked harp string, all taut control stretched over churning depths. John could feel it in the narrow width of his shoulders, setting up a sympathetic harmony to John's suffering. Sherlock had been afraid for him, and now that tension was steadily being released in fitful, subtle vibrations.

'We need to get you out of here,' Sherlock murmured, slowly helping John to his feet. 'I've dealt with the two who came looking for me, but there should be at least one more.'

'Baz,' John rasped in confirmation, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's coat for support as he tried to stand upright. 'I've not seen him. Not since back at the alley.' Everything was sore and heavy in equal measure, and he winced as he shuffled forwards on feet that didn't want to work. Immediately, Sherlock's grip tightened around his waist as he caught John’s left wrist with his other hand.

'This one's not broken, is it?' he asked, nodding at John's confirmation and draping the limb over his shoulders. 'Can you tuck the other one in close to your torso? Keep it out of harm's way?'

John grunted, realising he should have thought of that himself. His head wasn't working properly, the world taking on glassy edges amidst which only Sherlock seemed real. He inched along obligingly at his side, trying to breathe around the discomfort that ricocheted through his body. John hissed as he accidentally jolted his ribs, biting back a curse while Sherlock murmured meaningless encouragement.

'Not much further. I wouldn't move you at all, but it's probably inadvisable to leave your jailers unattended.'

'In case they get away?' John managed, squinting up at his friend's face.

'In case they choke on their own blood.' The expression on Sherlock's features was ruthless, utterly without mirth, and a frisson of something hot and inappropriate shot down John's spine. For a moment, it took the edge off the worst of his discomfort, then the transient respite faded, leaving him exhausted. 

'So not dead then?' He wrinkled his nose, trying to think and wincing as the bruises on his face stung.

Sherlock shook his head, pausing to glance around a corner, still alert and checking for danger. 'The shots were to herd them. They both fell back on instinct when under threat. It made them predictable. For now, they're unconscious, disarmed and confined.' He indicated another meat freezer, its door bolted and shut fast against the world. 'They should survive the experience, unfortunately. Here, sit down. I'll make sure an ambulance is on its way.'

John couldn't argue with that, and he slumped weakly onto a coarse crate full of God-knew-what. A rush of material made him flinch before the Belstaff settled around him, comfortable and smelling of Sherlock's shampoo.

Something pressed into his left palm, and John blinked at the familiar weight of his Sig. His knuckles were cold and inept around the metal, warmed as it was by Sherlock's skin, but he still curved his fingers on the trigger, taking comfort from its familiarity.

'Just in case.' Sherlock pulled another gun from the small of his back, and John recognised it as the one that, a short time ago, had been pointing at his head. 'I don't think Mitchell or Nate are going anywhere, but you said there's this “Baz” person to worry about.'

'Possibly one more as well.' John sighed when Sherlock glanced in his direction, his eyebrows raised. 'Perhaps not. I don't –' He cut himself off, disorientated and far too weary for this. 'They said they were leading you somewhere else. Stone's gas works or something? They made it sound like there was someone waiting to finish you off.'

Sherlock made a disinterested noise, as if news of his planned murder was not worth acknowledging. 'A fourth party is hardly surprising. I'll get someone to check it out. Wait there.'

John watched him stride across the room before reaching down behind a stack of palettes to pull free his phone. It had been hidden, and a spark of realisation flickered. He had thought it was strange that Sherlock's mobile had made a noise at all. He normally kept it on vibrate, at least while they were working a case, to make sure no stray sounds from the device gave him away. Belatedly, John realised it was deliberate: a decoy.

The light from the screen bathed Sherlock's face as he dialled a number and listened to it ring. His lips parted as if to say something, but whoever was on the other end beat him to it, their words creasing Sherlock's brow. 'It's a bit late for that now, Mycroft. John needs an ambulance. Have your minions come and take the perpetrators to Scotland Yard, and check the gas works in Stone. We think there's a fourth accomplice. Has Lestrade found the boy?' 

A brief pause followed, and John frowned, desperately trying to glean the response from Sherlock's expression. The smooth lines of his face grew tense, the cut over his eyebrow welling with fresh blood as he scowled. His full lips pursed, and his confident, steady movements became edgy as he whirled to pace back to John's side. 'What do you mean gone?'

John grabbed the cuff of Sherlock's suit jacket, tugging on the fabric as he tilted his chin in question. Yet Sherlock didn't look at him; he was too busy observing every shadow and niche that surrounded them, his face chalky white.

A soft noise, like someone nudging a piece of metal debris, skimmed through the air. John stiffened, watching as Sherlock hung up the phone without another word, dropping it in his pocket and checking the clip of the pistol in his hand.

'What's going on?' he whispered, his voice strained. 'Is it something to do with Nicholas? Is it –?'

'Stay here,' Sherlock ordered, ignoring John's growl of protest. 'I'll be right back.'

'Wait!' he hissed, shifting where he sat before trying to get to his feet. His knees shook threateningly and his head began to pound, but he was damned if he was going to cower at the wayside and leave Sherlock alone to deal with whatever was coming for them. 'Sherlock, wait!'

'Better do as he says, Doctor Watson. You're not looking too well.'

He whirled around to seek the origin of the voice, his heart in his throat and panic thick in his chest. His vision blurred, and John propped his hip against the crate, panting and nauseous as he squinted into the gloom.

Baz stepped forward, the sallow light overhead casting his face into deep shadows. He clutched a squat, brutal-looking gun in his right hand, but it wasn't aimed at John. It was pressed to the head of a young boy, his hazel eyes huge and gleaming with tears in the pallor of his face.

Nicholas.

'Drop it, Mr Holmes, and kick it over here.' The order was quiet in the brittle air, unaccompanied by dramatic threats. There was no need. For all that Baz looked like a big man gone to seed, the potential for violence was writ large in his frame. His face was a picture of calm, despite the gloss of sweat that beaded his forehead, and his expression was resolute: a man with a job to do.

Sherlock must have noticed it too, because he didn't argue as he lowered his weapon to the floor. The metal rattled against the cement before he straightened up, his hands raised in blatant surrender. A second later, he sent it skittering away with his foot, watching it slide to a halt in the no-man's land between them.

'Keep your hands where I can see them. You too, Doctor Watson.'

John licked his lips, thinking fast. Baz didn't seem to realise the Sig was secreted away, hidden in the folds of the Belstaff. His right wrist was still pulled in close to his chest, and John shifted carefully, pressing his palm out and praying that Baz wouldn't call his bluff.

'I can't move my other arm,' he lied, not bothering to hide the tremor in the one on display. 'Your boys got a bit rough.'

Broad shoulders shifted irritably, and he saw Baz roll his eyes. 'Then take off the coat.'

John's breathing rasped in his ears, his mind racing as his left palm grew slick around the weapon's grip. He didn't dare squeeze off a shot, not yet. He couldn't be sure he'd be quicker on the trigger than Baz, and there was no way he could risk Nicholas' safety. He had to get the kid out of range before he could fire.

'I – I can't.' He fidgeted uncomfortably, making a show of trying to shed the heavy wool and letting misery slash lines into his face.

Baz frowned, his grip tightening like a vice across Nicholas' neck, choking off the boy's whimpers. He urged him forward, half-dragging the kid along at his side. 'Then I'll do it myself.'

John flicked his gaze in Sherlock's direction, trying to communicate a hundred panicked thoughts in a single glance. Anyone else would have returned his stare in bafflement, but Sherlock seemed to read everything. He knew that if Baz saw the Sig then they'd lose their only advantage. He realised that John hoped to keep it hidden and buy them some time. That meant their adversary had to be distracted.

'Your colleagues warned you I was here, and you came running,' he murmured, lifting his chin and casting their captor a smug stare. 'I suppose I should be flattered.'

Baz shrugged, slowing his advance, but not stopping. 'If that makes you happy, Mr Holmes. You should probably take what comfort you can get – while you still can.'

The tension in the air increased, growing with every step he took. His paces were defiant, but hampered by Nicholas' clumsy struggles as Sherlock continued to speak.

'I suppose I should compliment you on your adaptability. You seem unsurprised to find me here, considering your ploy to lead me to the gas works. A shame, really, that your false trails were so transparent. All that hard work wasted. Mind you, an infant could have done a better job of it.'

John cringed as Baz paused a few paces away, his eyes sliding over to Sherlock as if magnetised, cold and blank. Yet the gun didn't move from where it was pressed above the boy's ear, and John swore inwardly to see a child at the mercy of a man with no qualms about the age of his hostage.

'I admit, we underestimated you, but you can't blame a bloke for trying,' he rumbled, shrugging his shoulders. 'When this job fell into our laps and got your interest in the process, I couldn't resist the chance to put you in your place.'

His weight shifted, his body angled towards Sherlock and his mass looming as a sneer distorted his mouth. 'See, ever since your glorious return, you've been getting in people's way. Making our lives difficult. Suddenly, a job comes along that gives me both the resources and the opportunity, and I thought to myself “Why not put all that to good use?”' A dark flush began to suffuse his sagging face, and John hunched his shoulders as the atmosphere thickened.

'Perhaps you stayed one step ahead of us, and I couldn't put you quite where I wanted you, but you know what, Mr Holmes? You're here now. That's good enough for me.' Baz's weapon shifted, a sleek line of destruction as he levelled the barrel at Sherlock, the safety hammer already cocked.

John moved as if electrified, his head full of denial as he dragged up his good arm and took aim. He forgot all about Nicholas, the boy's vulnerability fading from his awareness as the world narrowed down to a handful of seconds.

The Sig gave a sharp bang, dancing in his hand, and the moment of paralysis shattered into colour and sound.

Red bloomed at Baz's right shoulder, and the man howled as Nicholas tore himself away, stumbling back in shock. The gun rattled discordantly as it hit the ground, and he clutched at his wound, hunched and snarling profanities. 

Suddenly, he lunged, his face murderous as his blood-slicked fingers reaching for the fallen weapon, but Sherlock beat him to it. He moved with a dancer's grace, his body sinuous and lethal as he snapped the butt up into Baz's face.

The man fell like a sack of bricks, unconscious, his nose flat and his eyes rolled back in his head. Small clouds of dust billowed around him where he landed, sprawled on his back on the floor as stunned silence descended in the wake of his collapse.

The boy's sobs broke the spell, dry, cracked sounds of terror, and John slumped against the crate, shaking harder than he'd like to admit. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of other people banging through the building, and he quailed at the noise before Sherlock's explanation to Nicholas set his fears to rest.

'It's all right. That's the police. They're here to take you home to your mother.'

Adrenaline left as swiftly as it had come, and he stared as Sherlock guided the kid closer to John's side, including them both as he kept up a continuous monologue of reassurance. His deep voice was soothing, confident in a way John couldn't comprehend, and he allowed himself to sink into its familiar timbre.

Nicholas clutched at Sherlock's suit, getting tears and worse all over the expensive fabric as he clung to his rescuer, crowding himself into the space between John and Sherlock's bodies as if to hide. John expected Sherlock to pull away, repulsed. Instead, he shifted, providing additional shelter as he kept talking, lifting his voice to be heard over the increasing din that came from the arrival of both the police and Mycroft's men.

'It's over; you're safe,' he promised. Gone were the hard lines of stress and defiance, as well as the cool calculation of solving the case. Sherlock's shoulders slumped and his body swayed, pressing into John's side in a perfect line of welcome heat. He cocked his head, lifting his eyes to meet John's gaze as his voice drifted, quiet and intense, over a rare repetition meant for John's ears alone.

'You're safe.'


	6. Chapter 6

The hospital was a hive of activity, even in the pearly hours of dawn. Sherlock watched the sun begin its sluggish ascent into the sky through the window in the corridor: a bland pane overlooking an unkempt courtyard. He had not left John's side until forced to do so, driven away several hours ago by the threat of x-ray radiation and the irritation of the careworn staff. Even then, he had considered resistance, but John's gaze, pained but grateful, encouraged obedience. Sherlock had no qualms about making the nurses' lives difficult, but he was loath to cause John any further trouble.

A plastic chair sighed beneath his weight as he sank into it, propping his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands. The cut across his eyebrow stung in protest, but he ignored it as he released a shaky breath, allowing the emotions he had held at bay to wash through him. 

Fear was utmost in his heart, his constant companion since he had realised John was missing. Only his fury, dense and unfathomable, had briefly overridden it, guiding his actions in the shadows of the warehouse. Other people fell victim to their anger, but Sherlock had learned to put it to use. It was another whetstone on which he could sharpen his mind, removing everything but the desire to finish the task in front of him.

It enabled him to set his trap and stalk his prey, revelling in the satisfaction of incapacitating Nate before Mitchell, too, had fallen into his clutches. It had been a quick brawl: clumsy grappling and the trading of graceless blows. Perhaps others would have found the violence distasteful, but for Sherlock, it was cathartic – not the intangible justice of the legal system, but something he could feel beneath the drive of his fists and the force of his strength.

Now, he sat drained and vacant of everything except the keen slice of protectiveness that etched its commands into his flesh. He hated having John out of his sight. It left his body itching from a threat that didn't exist. Logically, he knew John was safe and in competent hands, but that fact provided no balm to his jittery unease.

Clenching his jaw, he examined his knuckles, picking at the new scabs until a fresh gloss of blood coated his skin in its copper sheen. They should be cleaned, but he didn't give a damn about himself. He was too focussed on John, who had passed through triage and the required diagnostics, and was currently behind the doors of one of the nearby wards receiving treatment.

A black shape moved in the corner of his vision, and he snarled silently as the tip of Mycroft's umbrella rested across his hands, stilling his movements with soft pressure. Immediately, he batted it away, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. He kicked out his feet, crossing them at the ankle and blocking Mycroft's path, forcing him to step over or fall flat on his face.

'Juvenile,' his brother murmured, lifting his chin and looking down his nose. 'I suppose it's to be expected, considering your actions over the past few hours. However, I had hoped you would be somewhat less reckless in your rescue attempt.' 

'To call it an "attempt" implies I did not succeed.' 

'Don't be so pedantic. Your success was more due to good fortune than skill, I feel.' Mycroft dug the tip of his umbrella into the floor, leaning against the handle as he observed Sherlock with blank-faced curiosity.

Pressing his fingertips over his eyelids, Sherlock groaned. He felt too blunted by the events of the day to keep up with his brother. 'Speak your piece and leave. I don't have time for your games.'

A sigh whispered in the corridor, almost inaudible over the general clatter and bustle of the surrounding building. Mycroft reached up, straightening his tie before he began. 'Would you believe I have no interest in toying with you?' He raised an eyebrow when Sherlock frowned. 'I'm merely here to inform you of new details pertaining to your case.'

It was tempting to dismiss the information as irrelevant, but despite his overwhelming concern for John, Sherlock could not turn his back on what Mycroft had to offer. If he did, it would chafe at him, the few remaining questions polluting his mind. They would intercede, dividing his attention between John and the unsolved mysteries surrounding the kidnapping, and for once, Sherlock was unwilling to give the Work any more of his time. 

He waved a hand, indicating his brother should continue. 

'Your tracking device was found in a small boat on the Thames, as you suspected. Between the evidence in the vessel, that in the car and at various scenes, there is adequate data to put this to rest.' He leaned back, straightening his shoulders. 'Your colleagues at the Yard have secured Nicholas, who is coping with his ordeal admirably. In addition to his testimony, the police have found a paper trail implicating the new spouse. There's enough to support multiple charges.'

Sherlock grunted, the logical progression spooling through his mind. 'So the husband paid Baz to abduct the boy and hold him in a secure location. Possibly, he intended to wait for the investigation to cool, reducing his chances of being caught when he removed Nicholas permanently from the equation.'

Mycroft nodded, apparently as unsurprised as Sherlock by such machinations. 'There were efforts to implicate his wife, but they were half-hearted at best.'

'Sentiment, perhaps. It's possible he loved her after a fashion.' He frowned, staring at the bland linoleum beneath his feet. 'There's a missing link. As far I can deduce, there's no connection between Nicholas and his abductors. No reason he would have gone willingly.'

Even before he finished speaking, the answer sprouted in his mind, and Sherlock closed his eyes as he snorted at his own lack of insight. John's words trickled back to him, a hazy, half-concussed warning about the possibility of a fourth player in their weary little game. 'Of course. It must have been whoever awaited my arrival at the gas works.'

'Gareth Hayes: A colleague of Paul Miller's who became a close friend of the family. Someone Nicholas trusted implicitly at Miller's encouragement,' Mycroft provided. 'Paul had no obvious criminal record beyond the usual protests back at university. Hayes, on the other hand.' He sighed. 'There was never anything solid to lead to a conviction, but some digging suggests he was peripherally involved with some of Moriarty's financial dealings.'

Sherlock tensed, lifting his head as his heart throbbed against his ribs. Mycroft held out a hand, his touch cautious yet secure. 'Moriarty's network was vast, and Hayes was a useful contact to fudge some numbers, nothing more.' His tone grew hard, as if driving his point home. 'None of the blame for this lies on you, Sherlock. You neutralised the core of Moriarty's organisation, allowing the rest to dissolve. Hayes was a harmless remnant, until he became ideally placed to connect Paul Miller with people who could make his wishes a reality. The thugs took the opportunity to plot your removal, but, ultimately, Hayes was little more than a facilitator.'

'Was?' He cocked his head as Mycroft shrugged. 

'He is now in the tender care of the police. We were able to demonstrate that he, along with his men, intended to lead you into a trap and kill you. As it stands they'll be charged with abduction and conspiracy to murder, and I am sure your Detective Inspector is adding more to the tally as we speak.'

Sherlock's mind lingered on the memory of John strung up like a side of beef, his face bloodless and his lips tinged blue. Bruises bloomed in shades of violet across his mind's eye, and the pinched sounds of suffering John made whenever he jostled a broken bone echoed in his ears. John's abductors had revelled in his agony. The idea of a trial and a prison sentence seemed too civilised a punishment.

The thought left him hollow, his gut bubbling with feral distaste. There was nothing intellectual about the efforts of Baz and the others: no intriguing genius. They had been children playing games, and John had been their toy.

'So they'll go to jail and we'll delay the inevitable. They'll get, what? Ten years? Fifteen? Then they'll be back.' He wove his fingers together, ignoring the stretch of drying blood across his knuckles as Mycroft sighed in agreement.

'Justice must be seen to be done,' he replied softly. 'There are proper channels. A trial and verdict are essential.' Silence fell between them, broken a moment later by Mycroft clearing his throat, speaking in careful, vague terms. 'However, prison is a dangerous place. All those violent tendencies and immoralities crammed into a tight space.'

'Volatile,' Sherlock agreed, tipping his head to look up at his brother, taking in the quirk of his eyebrow and the brief curve of one corner of his mouth: acknowledgement that they were of one mind.

'A veritable powder keg awaiting ignition.' Mycroft tugged at his jacket as if to remove invisible creases. 'The case is over, Sherlock. I suggest you devote your attention to assisting Doctor Watson with his recuperation.' He cleared his throat, and his next words sounded strained, as if he would rather not speak of it. 'After all, there is more to be repaired than a few broken bones.'

'Are you talking about feelings, Mycroft?' Sherlock grimaced. 'I thought such things were beneath you.'

'But not, it seems, beneath _you_.' His brother glanced at his watch before shifting his weight in preparation to depart. 'John was in danger and you forgot about everything else, including your distaste of asking me for assistance. Tell me, if the boy's abduction had been a separate case, would you have given it a second thought? Would you have chosen to save an innocent child over a war-torn ex-army doctor?' 

When Sherlock didn't reply, Mycroft strode away, speaking over his shoulder. 'I thought not. Fix this, Sherlock. You need John.' He paused, lingering in front of the double doors at the end of the corridor as he delivered his parting shot. 'As much as he needs you, I believe. I'll be in touch. Do pass on my regards to Doctor Watson, won't you?'

Sherlock tipped his head back, closing his eyes as a sigh swept past his lips. His stomach twisted in knots, tight and uncomfortable. Mycroft may like to get in the last word at any cost, but he had a point. As tempting as it was to do so, he couldn't pretend that the catalyst for the events of John's abduction – their argument and his subsequent departure – had never happened. They had spent too long leaving everything of significance unaddressed: Sherlock's absence and return, their lives in the duration, Mary and the unexpected termination of her relationship with John... The result was festering resentment, which steadily undermined their already insecure foundations. 

Sooner or later they would have to conduct the kind of conversation that made Sherlock cringe, and he wondered how he could voice desires he had not yet defined for himself. On the most basic level, he wanted everything back to the way it had once been: a friendship he could rely on without hesitation. Yet what they'd had in the past failed to encapsulate the strength and depth of his regard.

He had not missed John as an acquaintance or a companion, but as something integral. John had insinuated himself so thoroughly into Sherlock's life that their time apart had been an open wound, and his distance upon Sherlock's homecoming almost crippled him. His thoughts of his flatmate, once coloured with pleasant surprise and delicate affection, became shadowed by sadness and dread. Even now, the situation felt delicate, as if John could turn his back and walk away at any moment.

With a shake of his head, he flung his fears aside. There would be time for deliberations later. Right now, he had higher priorities, all of which centred on John's health. Words may communicate concepts, but it was action that got results. With that in mind, Sherlock pulled out his phone, glancing around for any meddlesome staff before shooting off a text to Lestrade.

**“Details of Nicholas' welfare required.”** He stared at the brief message, his lips twisting as he hastily added, **“John is concerned. - SH”**

The lie was a mere technicality of timing. John would no doubt ask after Nicholas once he was able to do so. Right now, still hidden away for treatment, he could not request the information. The least Sherlock could do was prepare for the inevitable questions and promptly put his friend's mind at ease with regards the youngest victim of the night's crimes.

Narrowing his eyes at the closed doors that blocked him from John, Sherlock wondered what was taking so long. Normally, he would shrug off delays as intrinsic to the NHS and be done with it, but with every passing minute his anxiety only increased. Surely all the necessary bandages and paraphernalia had been administered by now? Unless John's wounds were more severe than he had thought? 

A beep from his phone interrupted before he could act, a reply from Lestrade filling the screen. Getting to his feet, he read it quickly, absorbing everything in a glance.

**“Just John? You seem pretty worried about the kid yourself. He's fine. Unharmed, but scared. His mum's with him. It could have ended much worse if you hadn't found him. Let me know how John's doing. - GL”**

Sherlock slipped his phone away, vowing to tell John to text the DI as soon as he was able. A message from his own, slow hand would be infinitely more comforting to Lestrade than any statement by proxy that Sherlock could offer. Anyway, it wasn't as if he had additional news. He hadn't seen a trace of John for hours, and his patience, never a plentiful resource, had reached its limit. 

Before he could corner a passing nurse and demand an update on John's well-being, the doors to the ward opened, revealing a glimpse of a number of curtain-shielded beds. Immediately, the frayed voice of one of the medical staff punctuated the calm.

'Doctor Watson, I really think you should –'

'No.' John stepped out into the corridor, ignoring the man who hurried after him, a clipboard clutched in his hand. 'Look, don't get me wrong, I'm grateful you patched me up, but I'm not staying here for observation.'

'You have a serious concussion!' The doctor looked like he was tempted to drag John back inside, his bespectacled scrutiny flitting from the bruises that dappled John's flesh to the bright white cast that was wrapped around his injured arm and supported by a sling. They'd had to remove his jumper and t-shirt, as well as his jeans, and now a loose set of scrubs was his only protection against the chill of the corridor. Sherlock could see the fine shivers raising gooseflesh across John's skin, and he held in a sigh as he strode forward, braced to intervene should it become necessary.

'There is no evidence of skull or facial fractures.' John went to shake his head and then stopped, clearly regretting the movement. 'Look, I know what I need to watch out for, and I've got someone to keep an eye on me in case I lose consciousness and can't be roused. I've been here for hours. If nothing's shown up by now, then the chances of complications are negligible.'

The doctor looked like he wanted to argue, his jaw tense and his lips pursed. His gaze darted to Sherlock, sharp and critical, as if questioning his ability to provide suitable care. Perhaps in normal circumstances, that fear would not be unfounded – Sherlock would admit he frequently overlooked signs of inconvenient ill-health in others – but this was John. Exceptions would be made.

'Well,' the man said at last, deep lines bracketing his mouth. 'I cannot keep you here should you choose to leave, but your discharge will be against medical advice. If you experience any intensification of your symptoms, you must call an ambulance immediately.' He sighed before motioning to one of the seats, not moving until he saw John tentatively settle into its grasp. 'Please wait here; I'll get your paperwork and some supplies to allow you to treat your wounds at home.'

Sherlock watched him go, his cheap shoes squeaking against the smooth linoleum before he turned back to John, raising an eyebrow at the shaky smile he received. 

'There's no point in me staying,' he said, perhaps trying to defuse any protest Sherlock might conjure. 'They'll stick me on a ward and leave me to rot until it becomes obvious I'm not going to keel over. Besides, there's always someone who needs the bed more. You know that.'

Sherlock reached out, taking the Belstaff from where it was draped over John's good arm before unfurling the wool and wrapping the collar around John's slumped shoulders. 'If our positions were reversed and I was arguing with the doctors about my treatment, whose side would you take? Mine? Or theirs?'

'Yeah, well, unlike you, I've had medical training, and I don't have a bad habit of ignoring my injuries,' John pointed out, going to scratch the stitches at his temple before he thought better of it. 'I know what I can deal with at home, and this –' He gestured stiffly down at himself. 'Nothing that painkillers and a few days of taking it easy won't fix.'

'Your arm is broken, and judging by your posture, you've got at least two fractured ribs. That's going to take several weeks to heal,' Sherlock replied, lowering his voice when John failed to hide a wince, 'and that's not even mentioning whatever those Neanderthals did to your head.'

'Sherlock, I'm okay.' John sighed, his joviality falling away beneath a curtain of dense lethargy. 'I just – I want to go home.' Something made him pale further, and Sherlock struggled to understand the source of his distress before he added, 'The flat, I mean. If that's – if that's all right?'

He cringed to see John asking permission, respecting Sherlock's dismissal of him. In any other circumstances, he would have argued for his right to stay in Baker Street. Now, drained and hurting, it was plain to see that he didn't have the strength. If Sherlock turned him away, he'd go without question.

Hunkering down at John's side, he splayed his fingers on the floor for balance, swallowing tightly before he spoke. 'You have as much right to be there as I do,' he pointed out, inwardly cursing himself for the logical retort. He reached out to touch John's knee, halting him before he could withdraw, emotionally, if not physically. 

'John, I – I apologise for what I said. I was –' He shifted, trying to think of a suitable word to describe the cocktail of hurt and anger, disappointment and confusion that had dogged him during their last argument. In the end, he surrendered, deciding instead on a more truthful description of his actions. 'I was a fool for saying you should go.' He clenched his jaw, hating that he could deduce a crime in a few flowing sentences but barely get a handful of words out when it mattered. Worse, John wasn't coming to his rescue. He was just watching – waiting – as if every syllable Sherlock uttered was something to be weighed and measured.

'I was afraid you would walk out, and so I acted pre-emptively,' he admitted, unable to look into John's tired, bruise-ringed eyes. He stared at the thin cotton cladding John's leg instead, sheathing the tell-tale ridge of the bandage around the graze on his thigh. 'I didn't want you to go anywhere. I wanted you to fight to stay at the flat – to prove that, after everything, you still wanted to be there.'

Sherlock winced. He may not have had much success with relationships of any kind, but even he knew that testing their limits was another of the many definitions of “Not Good”. He'd reacted badly to John's anger, and it was John who had paid the cost of it in blood and broken bones.

Silence fell, filling the judgemental seconds until he could bear it no longer. He drew in a deep breath, steeling himself as he looked up, equally braced for fury or censure. He was not expecting the aching expression of grief that scored its message across John's face.

'I'm sorry.' John's voice cracked, yet he was nothing if not determined; that familiar trait was in plain view as his good hand rested over Sherlock's fingers to hold him in place. 'I can see why you thought I didn't want to be there. Ever since you –' He paused, struggling to maintain his composure '– died, all I wanted was for you to come back. Then you did, and I've done nothing but punish you.'

'Some might argue you were right to do so,' Sherlock murmured, wincing in pity when John shook his head and immediately swore in discomfort. 'You don't have to talk about this now.'

That chin lifted, pugnacious. 'Yes, I do. I didn't ask what happened when you were away and you never said, probably because you thought I wouldn't listen. You were gone for so long, and when you came home I never even checked that you were all right. Faced with that, it's no surprise you thought I didn't care.'

Sherlock shifted, a prickle of anxiety building at the base of his spine. This was not a confrontation, but it felt like a precarious balance, where one wrong utterance could destroy everything that he was so desperate to rebuild. 'Did you? Care?'

John's lips twitched upwards at one corner, but he bowed his head in what looked like defeat. 'Human nature, isn't it? You don't get that pissed off at someone if you don't give a damn about them anymore.' He took a deep breath, flinching as he pressed his hand to his ribs before releasing a sigh. 'I won't lie. There were times I wished I didn't, but you always mattered, Sherlock.' His tongue darted over the chapped flesh of his mouth. 'I'm sorry for everything I did that made you think otherwise.'

In reality, John's words were sparse, but something tense and aching in Sherlock's chest slackened – not gone or healed – but easier to bear all the same. They had both admitted that they were at fault, and while voicing an apology was a far cry from finding forgiveness, he could see it for what it was: the first step. Whether it proved to be a path that took them back to the friends they had been or on to something different – _better_ – remained to be seen, but for now it was enough.

He wanted to say something, give his thanks, perhaps, but everything that he could think of sounded inadequate in the silence of his head. Finally, he turned his hand over where it lay beneath John's, cupping his palm and sweeping his thumb across the prominence of one of John's knuckles. 'You're exhausted,' he murmured, straightening up. 'Let's get you home.'

John's response was instantaneous. A fragile smile bloomed and his shoulders relaxed, curving beneath the weight of the Belstaff. 'Yeah. Home sounds good. The bloody doctor's probably taking his time on purpose. Anything to keep me here a bit longer.'

'I'll deal with it,' Sherlock promised, absently tugging his coat closer around John's body to block out the chill. 'I shouldn't have to say this, but don't wander off. In fact, if you can manage, send Lestrade a text.' He passed over his phone, since John's was being held as evidence. 'He has been expressing his concern for you.'

John grinned, balancing the mobile on his knee and typing, snail-paced, with one hand. Still, it kept him occupied, and Sherlock quickly made use of the time, tracking down the doctor and gathering medical supplies. He listened carefully to the curt instructions until the man started repeating salient points for emphasis, as if Sherlock was too stupid to have made sense of them the first time.

'Yes, thank you.' He plastered a fake smile onto his face, wresting free the bag of sterile wipes and other paraphernalia in a bid to silence the officious individual. However, it was only once John scrawled his signature on the relevant forms that they were permitted, albeit reluctantly, to leave. 

It was tempting to stride out into the addictive chaos of London's swarm. John, especially, seemed eager to be free of the hospital's walls, but his abused body would only allow so much haste. Instinctively, Sherlock kept his paces even and leisurely, making allowances without conscious thought as he filled John in on the fate of the perpetrators, as well as the boy.

'So the kid's all right?' John asked. 'Thank God for that. I mean, I know this is probably going to haunt him for a while, his mum as well, but at least he's not hurt.'

Sherlock hummed in agreement as they stepped into the cool daylight that awaited them. 'They will both likely struggle with the mental and emotional consequences,' he admitted, hailing a cab and standing back to allow John inside before joining him. 'However, the situation could have been much worse.'

'Yeah, but it wasn't, thanks to you.' The praise was absent-minded, and Sherlock glanced over to see John frowning at the clock up by the driver. With no windows in the freezer in which he was contained and no real connection to time within the hospital, it made sense that John was trying to reintegrate himself with the temporal rhythm of the city.

'You were abducted yesterday evening and held in captivity for approximately seven hours. You've been gone less than a full day.'

'It feels like a lot longer,' he muttered, and Sherlock suspected the hunch of John's body was as much to do with emotional strain as anything else. 

Taking care of others had never been his strong-suit, but over the course of their acquaintance, he learned from John's example. He observed his methods of offering comfort, both medical and the basic human kindness that other people seemed to treasure. As such, he at least possessed a moderate understanding of the theory, and John was one of the few for whom Sherlock would make the effort to put his knowledge into practice.

'I'm assuming you're more tired than hungry?' he asked, trying to establish a hierarchy of need.

'God, yes.' John managed a tight smile, more a grimace than anything else. 'They used local anaesthetic to help set my arm, since the bone had shifted.'

'Hardly surprising. You were hanging from the ceiling.'

'The drugs made me a bit queasy.' He squinted out of the window, and now he'd mentioned it, Sherlock could see a green tinge to his usually warm pallor. 'I just need water, medication and sleep, not necessarily in that order.' 

A shiver raced through him, visible to Sherlock's keen eye, and he turned John's words over in his mind. They were familiar fundamentals, ones John had taught him: the highest, most essential requirements after wound treatment. He'd clung to those when he was alone, chasing down shadows and suffering through the trials of each new lead. Yet he also knew there were desires that went with them – things he had longed for, lonely and hurting, that John had provided before the fall from Bart's: companionship and closeness. Perhaps they were not necessary to survive, but to Sherlock they had been integral all the same. He doubted John was any different.

The taxi pulled up to the black door of Baker Street, its engine idling as Sherlock paid before vacating the cab and helping John to his feet. Mrs Hudson was waiting for them on the doorstep; judging from the faint signs of travel that still lingered in the rumples of her dress, she had only returned from her sister's a short while ago, yet already she seemed suitably informed. Mycroft's doing, no doubt. 

Her expression pinched with sympathy, her lips pursed and her eyes creased at their corners. 'Oh, John! What have they done to you?'

'It looks worse than it is,' he promised, allowing her a quick, careful hug. It meant that only Sherlock saw the knowing look Mrs Hudson shot his way, one that said she didn't believe John for a minute. 'I'll be all right before long.'

'If you say so, dear.' She stepped back, doing nothing to hide the doubt on her features. 'Mycroft dropped in earlier. He's sorted out the locks, and cleaned up your flat.'

'What happened?' John asked, looking at Sherlock.

'Your abductors ransacked the place, hoping to distract me,' he explained before turning back to their landlady. 'They came in through the back door. I couldn't see anything obvious missing, Mrs Hudson, but you might want to double-check.'

'I already have,' she promised. 'They weren't after anything of mine, dear.' Her emphasis was far from subtle, her head tilted and her gaze slicing pointedly to John before meeting Sherlock's eye with a fraction of a smile. 'You get John settled,' she urged, her slender hand fluttering to the stairs. 'I'll bring you boys up some dinner later. Something better than takeaway, since I know there's nothing edible in your fridge.' 

'Do you think anything can surprise her?' John asked, his movements slow and aching as they obediently climbed towards the door to their home.

Sherlock gave a faint smile, slipping the key into the lock and standing aside to let John pass. 'There's very little Mrs Hudson can't take in her stride.'

'Just as well, considering the lives we lead.' He limped over to the table, sagging into one of the kitchen chairs as Sherlock surveyed their flat, observing Mycroft's influence. It seemed he had tidied up personally. No doubt his brother had taken the opportunity to search a few old hiding places. He wondered if cameras had been reinstalled, and vowed to spend some time extracting any surveillance equipment once John was resting.

Glancing back, he took in the pain marking his flatmate's features and quickly got to work. The sooner he saw to John's comfort, the better. 'The doctor seemed adamant that you shouldn't take any anti-inflammatories for the next forty-eight hours.'

'Because of the head injury. They would exacerbate any bleeding in here.' John touched a finger lightly to his temple. 'It's probably best not to take anything else for a while anyway, though I wish I could.'

'I got some codeine from the pharmacy a couple of weeks ago; the packet's still full. It might be more effective, since it doesn't sound like the doctors gave you anything particularly worthwhile.'

'None of the good stuff,' John agreed. 'There wasn't any need. The fractures were all fairly simple, at least once the bones had been set. Over-the-counter medication's enough to control the pain. I'll sleep for a bit, then take some more.' He accepted the glass of water that Sherlock offered, sipping it cautiously at first, then with enthusiasm, as if he were just realising he was parched. His throat moved around each swallow, mesmerising, and Sherlock had to physically tear himself away so he could consider the logistics of John's care.

'I appreciate you may be happier in your own bed, but if you could bear it, sleeping in mine would be more convenient,' he explained. 'I'm meant to make sure you can be roused every few hours, and the sound of me climbing up there is likely to disturb you more than necessary. Don't even try to convince me the couch is a viable option – not with broken ribs.' 

He watched John narrow his eyes in consideration, but it was clear he was too fatigued to protest. He would probably have slept on a park bench if Sherlock suggested it. 'Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Besides, I'm not sure I can manage to get up to my room right now.'

He looked like the very last thing he wanted to do was climb to his feet again, even for the short walk to Sherlock's bedroom, but slowly John eased himself upright. He braced his weight on the table before hobbling across the intervening space, not even hesitating when Sherlock followed him in. 

'I'd change,' he murmured, plucking at the scrubs which clothed him, 'but I don't have the energy.'

'Lie down,' Sherlock urged, peeling back the quilt and closing the curtains as John shrugged out of the Belstaff. Almost immediately, he broke out in new shivers, his teeth chattering as he eased himself down onto the mattress, wincing around short, tight breaths of misery.

Sherlock pressed the covers down around John's frame to form a solid cocoon. 'I'll be right back. Mrs Hudson let me borrow her hot water bottle for an experiment a few days ago. It's still in one piece, and it looks like you need it.'

His agreement was a muffled noise of assent, and Sherlock went to boil some water, shifting impatiently in front of the kettle before filling the rubber vessel, easing out the air and screwing in the cap. A towel around the outside would allow John to press close to it without burning himself, as well as prolong the heat held at the bottle's core.

Slipping back into his room, Sherlock crept closer, half-expecting unconsciousness to have claimed John as its own. Slitted blue eyes greeted him from above the bold white of the quilt cover, which John had pulled up to his nose. He accepted the hot water bottle with a grunt of gratitude, absorbing it into the depths of his nest.

Sherlock tried to quash the strange satisfaction of John seeking comfort from Sherlock's bed. It was a ridiculous emotion, considering the circumstances, and he bowed his head, turning away with a soft good night on his lips.

Timid fingers tugged at his suit jacket, making him hesitate. When he looked back, John managed an awkward shuffle, not quite a shrug, but close enough. 'Stay a minute?' he asked. There was nothing plaintive about the question, which was reassuring. John sounded strong, even if he didn't look it. 'Just 'til I warm up. You've told me all about Nicholas, and what's going to happen to Baz and the others, but you've not said anything about how you found me.'

That was intentional. John's words before he had walked out of Baker Street the previous night were still raw in his mind. It seemed petty to discuss his methods when John had been clear that what once amazed him was now little but a tiresome character flaw. Volunteering the information could be interpreted as thinly veiled attempt to gain John's approval, and his dignity would not allow it, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

Ignoring the way his knees clicked, Sherlock sat on the floor, his back to the bedside table so that his face was closer to John's level. He kicked his legs out in front of him and, without any of his usual enthusiasm, began to explain the process, from the mess of the flat to the scuffed-over traces in the alley, the GPS and the gruesome images that had winged their way to his phone. By the time he'd finished, John's shivers had abated and his breathing had turned deep and steady – not sleeping, not yet, but apparently reassured by the ebb and flow of Sherlock's voice.

'And you put it all together, just like that. Moss and blue fluid on the walls.'

'Eventually,' he replied, trying not to think how he had almost been too late. 'It took far longer than I would have liked.'

'God, Sherlock, don't worry about that. You could have ended up in the wrong place.' John closed his eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft. 'You could not have bothered looking at all. I know you probably won't believe me after what I said, but “amazing” doesn't cover it. No-one else would have got me out of there alive.'

Sherlock bit back the protest that, if it were not for him, then there was a good chance John would not have been abducted in the first place. It was a useless statement, and one that would not lull John any closer to the sleep he so desperately needed. Instead, he replaced his words with a cautious excuse.

'We both said things we didn't mean.' 

John's hum of agreement was rough at its edges, the combination of fatigue and welcome warmth rapidly drawing closed the veils of oblivion. 'I was on my way back,' he mumbled, his voice slurred, 'when they grabbed me, I mean. On my way back to bully you into letting me stay. I wasn't going to leave for good. Not even when you wanted me to.'

Sherlock's heart leapt, a bright, unexpected burst of emotion sweeping along the keel of his ribs as he stared in surprise. That knowledge had not been something he could deduce from the sparse evidence John's abductors left behind, yet it put a new slant on this entire scenario. John had decided to return – to fight for what they had, rather than turn his back on it. None of this – the conversation, the apologies, the hope – was the product of gratitude for a timely rescue. 

'Your permanent departure was never my intention,' he admitted quietly, 'nor my wish.' 

Perhaps John was too far gone to recognise Sherlock's words, but something must have registered, because a smile curved his mouth, and the fingers clasped awkwardly at the cuff of Sherlock's jacket tightened before falling slack.

There was no need for Sherlock to linger. John needed his rest, at least until such times as medical demands necessitated waking him. There was plenty out in the flat that could occupy him in the hours that John slumbered, yet he could not bring himself to move.

Here, in the twilight of this temporary sanctuary, there was something like peace, and Sherlock allowed himself to bask in it, comforted by the soft melody of his friend's steady, constant breaths. John was back in Baker Street, and Sherlock had no intention of losing him again.

He would do everything he could to make sure that John knew the truth: this was where he belonged.


	7. Chapter 7

If pressed to imagine Sherlock caring for an invalid, John would have struggled to form a clear picture beyond one of benign neglect. He so easily immersed himself in experiments, books or his own thoughts that hoping for anything else would be ridiculous. He hadn't considered the fact that Sherlock might take all that terrifying focus and catch John in its glow, giving him the kind of devotion normally reserved for a perplexing murder.

Like a set of scales knocked from their equilibrium, he anticipated overcompensation – for indifference to become smothering attention – but Sherlock neither hovered nor fussed. Instead, he appeared to monitor John for signs of need, be it for assistance or sustenance, time to himself or the solace of someone else's presence, and respond when necessary.

The latter was why they were currently ensconced on the sofa, a fire blazing cheerfully in the grate nearby. John lounged in one corner, dressed in soft cotton pyjamas with a quilt draped around his shoulders. Numerous pillows supported his back and ribs, so that as long as he didn't move suddenly, the creaking pain in his bones remained at peace.

Sherlock sat with his legs crossed up under him at John's side, close enough that their arms brushed whenever one of them shifted. One bony knee rested on John's uninjured thigh, and a book lay open in his lap. 

An hour ago, he'd been reading while John watched whatever miscellaneous Bond film was on channel four. At some point, though, the flickering screen had caught his eye. Now he stared, a puzzled frown furrowing his brow as he searched for some thread of logic in an action-packed and probably superfluous car chase. 

In contrast, John was watching Sherlock, surveying the battle of light and shadow across his features as fretful thoughts circled his mind.

It had been five days since those initial apologies stirred the stringent air of the hospital. They were the last thing John expected – after all, Sherlock was hardly known for displaying remorse – but hearing those words gave him hope. Perhaps their conversation had not been world-changing, but it was a start, or so he thought.

Yet once they'd got through those first twenty-four hours, where John spent more time in bed than out of it, everything settled into limbo. They still talked, but not about anything meaningful. It was all locked into the present tense, with no mention made of the past or future. They lived from one hour to the next, both aware of the elephant in the room but choosing not to acknowledge its existence. 

More than once, John tried to find a starting point, but each time his voice froze and his courage failed him. He felt as if he were standing on some permanent precipice, desperate to discover what lay at the bottom but afraid to take the plunge. It was uncomfortable, here, in this strange neutral zone of their own making. John found himself on tenterhooks, waiting for it all to fall apart around his ears.

His only consolation came to him on the second day, when the pain in his body diminished to something tolerable and he found himself able to think around the suffering in his head. Rather than obsessing over everything that wasn't being said, he chose to look closely at Sherlock's actions, and what he found put many of his fears to rest. 

John had never known his flatmate was capable of such careful diligence, neither oppressive nor distant. Perhaps, initially, it was his way of saying sorry without having to repeat himself, but there was a big difference between meeting John's highest needs for survival and offering all the small things that added up to contentment and happiness. Sherlock did whatever he could, providing medication, food, warmth and company, and there was nothing forced about it. He didn't seem to be angling for praise; he merely acted, communicating clearly even if he never said a word.

More to the point, he reached a compromise, abandoning neither John to his aches nor his own mind to the ravages of boredom. Sherlock conducted more experiments at the kitchen table than in the lab at Bart's, and when Greg came over to check on them, he bullied the DI for cold case files to entertain his vast intellect. 

The result was this – a settled, steady domesticity that John hadn't realised he craved. Where Sherlock had been a blank slate after his return, apparently apathetic to John's involvement in his life, he now deliberately included him, asking his opinions and bouncing ideas around, seeking his input on investigations and mundane decisions alike.

Then there were the touches.

It started gradually at first, under the guise of helping John get around or passing him cups of tea, but even then John's nerves thrilled at every tiny brush of Sherlock's skin against his own. Now, it was obvious that the rigid boundaries of personal space they'd rebuilt and maintained for far too long were falling away. Sherlock sat close without hesitation, and John reached out without thought, holding his shoulder or elbow, tweaking his cuff or grabbing his wrist to get his attention. 

Within hours of John's first overtures, Sherlock reciprocated; he'd grasp John's good hand when he made a breakthrough or guide him gently out of the way with two palms bracketing the cradle of John's hips. Every time, it left him breathless, his body humming as if Sherlock were a magnet drawing at the iron in his blood. 

He would be an idiot if he thought any of this was new. Before Moriarty's miserable finale, they'd been in the same place: everything thrumming with potential. He remembered it – the prickle of static over his scalp and the harsh throb of his pulse whenever Sherlock met his gaze and let it linger. 

Once, John thought that time and anger had scoured away that affection, leaving nothing but a hollow behind. Now, he realised the sensations had fallen dormant, and only when they were given the chance, cocooned in the sanctuary of Baker Street, did they bloom again.

However, fleeting contact and the occasional glance could only do so much. If he really wanted to make something – friendship or more – of this truce he and Sherlock had forged, then one of them would have to start talking. They couldn't build anything without a firm foundation. If they tried, it would only blow up in their faces, and John wasn't sure they were strong enough to bear that all over again.

Shaky determination filled his chest, and he carefully shuffled around where he sat, giving up the pretence of watching the television. The weight of his thumb on the remote extinguished the screen, leaving Sherlock to blink in surprise before glancing in John's direction. 'Are you all right?' he asked immediately, keen eyes raking his frame and apparently deducing every ill of his body in a glance. 'I thought you were watching that?'

'And I thought you were reading,' John teased gently, gesturing to the book in his lap. It was gratifying that they were back to this point, one where Sherlock – who easily took offence at what others said – could recognise the playfulness in his voice.

Elegant fingers shifted on the tome before pressing it closed, sealing the words away as one shoulder lifted in a shrug. 'I was distracted by the fact the entire film seems to have been built on a faulty premise.' He sniffed, a faint smile curving his lips as John grinned.

'Oh, so you're not on the edge of your seat then?' A laugh strained his ribs as Sherlock untucked one leg, his bare foot hanging as he pointedly slumped back into the sofa cushions. 

His haughty expression soon dissolved into one of quiet concern, and John fidgeted, trying to decide how to proceed. He wanted to get back to how they'd once been: confidants and comrades. That was the only goal he dared to hope for, but he wasn't sure how to begin the journey. 

All his questions seemed like too little, too late, his need to know what Sherlock had suffered in his absence made meaningless by all the months he'd held his silence. With anyone else, it would be easy. He could speak his mind without fear of the repercussions, but this was Sherlock, and while it was far from perfect, the delicate facsimile of companionship they'd constructed over the past few days was too precious to threaten.

He was about to dismiss it, cowardly again, when Sherlock angled his body towards him and reached out. It was a faint touch, a brief caress to the back of John's uninjured hand. However, despite the simplicity of the connection, he found himself staring, anxiety arcing along his spine as he rotated his wrist and caught that slender palm in his grip. 

Perhaps he was reading too much into it, ascribing meaning to gestures Sherlock might not intend. However, to John it was a mute confirmation that he was not alone in wanting to save what lay between them, and he took comfort in the fact they were battling to reclaim the same ground.

'I should have asked.' His voice cracked at its edges, and he swallowed, clearing his throat. As opening gambits went, it wasn't a very coherent choice, but he doubted his brain had much say in this. It was driven by something more bloody, harboured in his chest and guts. 'When you got back, I should have asked what you'd been through, if you were all right... I should have talked to you, rather than –' He began to shrug, regretting the motion instantly as pain flared in his ribs.

Sherlock tipped his head, his eyes narrowing. There wasn't much to be read in his features, which seemed to be deliberately blank, but his hold on John's hand tightened, conveying a tangle of comfort and reassurance. 'I caused you distress, a great deal more than I anticipated. If I'd known...'

'Don't say you wouldn't have done it.' John interrupted without thinking, biting his lip and cursing himself. He wanted Sherlock to keep talking, not browbeat him back into silence, but that was one lie he could not bear to hear. 'If you were back on the roof of Bart's, there's nothing you'd do differently.'

'No. By that point, I'd run out of options.' His agreement was unapologetic, and the weight of it made John's heart heavy. 'Still, I would have been less patient waiting for leads to come to fruition. I knew you were safe, and so I was – not content – but resigned. It would never have been quick, but if I'd known, I'd have fought to spare you your ignorance of my survival for longer than absolutely necessary.'

John frowned, a knot forming in his throat. 'How much sooner could you have come home?'

A look of inward concentration crossed Sherlock's face as he calculated the likely response. 'Six weeks?' He shrugged. 'Possibly eight. It's hard to be sure.'

Thinking back, John bit his lip, briefly lost in the possibilities of what might have been. He'd proposed to Mary a little over a month before Sherlock returned. What would have happened if he'd walked back into John's life before that? Would they still be here, having this conversation, or would their lives have taken another path?

'Wouldn't it have been more dangerous?' he asked. 'Easier to make mistakes or just end up on the wrong end of someone’s knife?' The idea of Sherlock dying in some nameless, faceless part of the world with no one there to help him made John's stomach cramp, and he quickly shook his head. 'I'm glad you were patient. If you'd rushed it, you might never have come back at all.'

Agreement ghosted over Sherlock's features, and John licked his lips, watching intently. 'It was a close run thing, wasn't it? I'm guessing that, at least once, you weren't sure you'd make it.'

'Why do you say that?' He sounded genuinely curious, but he wasn't denying it.

'Some days it's written all over your face.' John shivered, the chill racing over his skin unaffected by the warmth of the nearby fire. 'I used to pretend I couldn't see it, but I'm not blind.'

Sherlock sighed, his eyes closing against some unspoken memory. Despite himself, John swayed forward, ignoring the faint throb in his arm that suggested his painkillers were wearing off. His shoulder pressed into Sherlock's, and the quilt hushed faintly as it slumped to the side.

'Will you tell me?' he asked quietly, squeezing Sherlock's fingers. 'I know that, when you came home, I should have tried to understand rather than acting like I didn't care, but if you want to talk about it now, I'll listen.'

He feared Sherlock would pull away, having reached some maximum capacity for conversing about anything of meaning. Sentiment never failed to make him uncomfortable, and John practically glowed with it, all impetuous, earnest care – his heart on his sleeve. He braced himself for a dismissal, yet when Sherlock began to speak, hesitantly at first, and then with more confidence, John found himself rapt.

It was impossible not to correlate their lives. Sherlock marked out the days in miles and border-posts, arrests and progress, while John's own time lost itself in a knot of grief. The day he turned his back on Baker Street, Sherlock travelled to Venice, and during the miserable fortnight that John tried to return to work, his flatmate had been in frost-glazed Prague. Sherlock's self-appointed task took him far and wide, and all the while John was stuck in London's sprawl, orbiting the gravestone that remained.

Sherlock's story sounded like another world, and John's heart keened, wishing it had been different – that they'd been side-by-side, rather than torn apart.

'I cut off Moriarty's network at the roots,' he explained. 'With no ready source of funding, it began to disintegrate. Factions turned on each other, decimating the organisation. That lack of loyalty made hunting those in possession of Moriarty's ultimate orders easier, but it was still agonisingly slow. I tracked one to Bangladesh and spent about a week there.' A grimace twisted his lips, and he wrinkled his nose in repulsion. 'Unfortunately it's hard to concentrate on anything when you're vomiting every few hours.'

'Shouldn't have drunk the water,' John pointed out.

'To be honest, I'm not sure it wasn't something I picked up on the way. It left me weak and far from my best. I got caught.' He sobered then, rolling his eyes at the memory of his own failure. 'The only mercy of the entire situation was that they didn't recognise me. Different hair colour, tinted contact lenses and a few subtle "defining features" saw to that. It helped that I cultivated a rumour I was working for a rival gang. They held me hostage for information on their competitors, rather than shooting me on sight.'

John frowned, noting the way Sherlock flexed his left hand as if chasing off a phantom pain. 'Just because they didn't kill you doesn't mean you got out unharmed,' he replied, dragging the quilt onto his shoulder again and including Sherlock in the furl of its wings. 'When Baz and his thugs had me, I remembered something you said after you got back. You told me that the perpetrators were always the weakest link in a captivity situation. That you just had to wait for them to rest on their laurels, and then take advantage of their complacency. That's what you were talking about, wasn't it? Bangladesh?'

Sherlock nodded, calm despite the subject. 'I was woefully unprepared. I didn't realise until that point how much I'd come to rely on other people: Mycroft and Lestrade, but most of all you. I was still acting like I was back here, chasing after leads without a thought of the consequences.'

'But you were on your own.' Another shiver raced across John's skin, born of horror. His time without Sherlock was full of shadows and grief, but he had been surrounded by people. There were friends here to support him whether he wanted them or not. Sherlock had no one, and there was nothing to keep him going except the satisfaction of destroying Moriarty's influence and the promise of his homecoming.

'The whole ordeal slowed me down. It was one of those instances where patience was unfortunately the only option. I remained imprisoned for almost five days before one of them made a mistake. I escaped, shut down their operation and moved on. It was the beginning of a pattern.' 

At John's appalled expression, Sherlock hurriedly corrected himself. 'Not imprisonment. Infiltration. I got inside units I suspected of having connections to the assassins and ripped them apart. It had to be done carefully. If I became predictable, or there were any obvious commonalities, I risked tipping off the killers that they were being hunted. If that happened –' He glanced away, staring blankly at the flames dancing in the hearth.

'They'd have shot us: Mrs Hudson, Greg and me,' John finished for him, taking a deep breath. 'It would have all been for nothing.'

Dark curls bobbed as Sherlock nodded. 'As soon as they, and any subordinates who might pick up the mantle of their task were eliminated, I came home.' He looked up, meeting John's eye knowingly, reading the expressions summoned by the reel of memories that rushed through John's mind.

His recollection of Sherlock's return wasn't as clear as he would have liked. There was a dream-like quality to it, the colours bleeding together beneath a gut-wrenching tide: disbelief and gratitude mere sparks drowned beneath waves of furious hurt. 

He'd felt so stupid, like the butt of a practical joke – as if Sherlock had been laughing at him all along. He knew it wasn't true, but that didn't stop the dim burn of bile in his stomach as he leaned away. 'Well, you had everyone convinced. Everyone who wasn't in on it, anyway.' 

He thought of Molly – the unexpected keeper of Sherlock's secret. In her, his displeasure had found a surprising target. She saw John's miserable agony, yet she did nothing to alleviate it. Bitterly, John had told himself that it was her weakness for Sherlock that blocked her from helping him. Sherlock asked, and so of course she obeyed, eager to please as always.

In retrospect, he knew how wrong he was in that assumption. She'd proven that herself when she'd cornered him a few months after the truth came out. Despite the apology that wobbled in her voice and pinched her friendly expression, she spoke with steel beneath her words, tremulous but unmoving.

_"I'm not saying what he did was right, but he was saving lives. Saving your life. If he hadn't, you wouldn't have this, Mary, any of it. I know you're angry, anyone would be, but you need to understand why he's never going to say he's sorry. How can he regret it, when it means you survived?"_

He'd walked away without a reply, clinging to his outrage because without it, he wasn't sure what to feel anymore. Deep down, he knew Molly was right, but even now there was a vicious thread of resentment at the thought that he should be grateful for Sherlock's actions. 

With a shake of his head, he licked his lips, knowing this was not the way to go about finding forgiveness. If he continued to cling to the pain Sherlock caused, it would only fester, and it had already poisoned their relationship enough. Sherlock should never have faked his death, but John was hardly blameless in their current situation.

'You came home, and I treated you like a villain,' he confessed quietly. 'I hated you.'

Sherlock scratched at his eyebrow before pasting a strained, vacant smile on his lips. It was uncomfortable to look at, a poor mask for the sadness beneath. 'I suspected as much, anticipated it, even,' he admitted. 'Sometimes, while I was gone, I allowed myself to hope for a more favourable response, but...' His shoulders hunched as he cast aside the thought. 'I was prepared for you to never speak to me again. Your resentment was better than indifference.'

Guilt shafted through John's chest, and he immediately closed the widening gap between them. The fingers at the end of his cast flexed, and he heartily wished he had full use of both his arms. As it was he could only move stiffly, pinching Sherlock's sleeve to pin him close.

'I'm sorry,' he repeated. 'Not for being furious, because I think I was entitled, but for nurturing it for so long. For fighting to hold onto it when I should have at least tried to let it go.' He'd used his anger like a weapon, constantly sharpening its blade and pressing it to use against Sherlock. Even once things started to heal between them, the scar tissue new and fresh, there were still days when he would lash out anew.

Sherlock swallowed, looking anxious for the first time since this conversation began. John was used to the tilt of those features when he had a question to ask; he recognised the shallow crease of a puzzled frown and the way Sherlock bit his lip. 'What is it?'

'I don't blame you for the way you reacted to my return,' he admitted. 'I understood, even if I wished it was different, but things were improving between us. As much as I resented her at first, Mary was good for you. She helped you and I find a new balance. I thought we were making progress, and then...'

'Then I broke off my engagement.' John's heart thumped, hard and fearful. He knew what Sherlock would ask, and his mind scrambled for an answer that wouldn't leave him exposed. The truth said too much, revealing new depths that went far beyond friendship, and anything else was a fiction Sherlock didn't deserve.

'Will you tell me why?'

He could say no, feign tiredness and escape this turn in the conversation, but that gutless act seemed like a betrayal. He longed to be able to put it off, to allow them to recover what they could of their rapport before even considering the new shades of longing that haunted him, but if he did, would the right moment ever come? Would there ever be a day when he was happy to place everything on the line in the expectation of more?

Swallowing, John cast his considerations aside. For now, there was a simple equation of honesty. Sherlock had been open about his regrets, firm on their limits even when social convention encouraged him to lie for the sake of John's feelings. Surely he owed Sherlock the same openness, regardless of the consequences?

'Would you have married her, if I hadn't come back?'

That was easier to answer, and John disengaged his hand from Sherlock's grasp, rubbing it along his jaw as he nodded. 'Probably, but that doesn't mean I would have been happy. Content, maybe. We could have made a good go of it, but she needed more than I could give, and she sure as hell deserved better than spending her life with a man who couldn't make her his highest priority.' 

He released Sherlock's sleeve, letting the fabric slip away as he shifted the cast into his lap and picked at the plaster. Logically, he was aware this was the wrong time for any kind of admission, but it boiled beneath his diaphragm and seethed in his mind, impossible to hold back.

'I broke it off because, after you came home, I knew I'd always see her as second best, and that wasn't fair to anyone.'

Bowing his head, John looked away. Every nerve quivered, alert to the man beside him, waiting for the silence to give way to cool, intellectual rejection. He was so sure of what was coming that the warm touch on the back of his hand caught him by surprise, instantly recapturing his attention.

Glancing up, he stared at the unfamiliar expression on Sherlock's face. It was not closed off as he had feared, but exposed and curious. Apprehension, fear and uncertainty warred for supremacy. The capricious light of the fire turned silver eyes gold at one edge, but the frail illumination did nothing to hide the intensity of Sherlock's scrutiny. 

John tried to calm his pulse and steady his breathing as anticipation collided with dread. Just because a dismissal had not yet been spoken, that didn't mean it didn't linger, waiting to be voiced.

'I –' Sherlock stammered, his brow twitching downwards before he glanced away. Both his hands were on John's, careful of the cast despite the power of his grip. 'Reading emotional implications has never been a personal strength,' he confessed in a hoarse voice, seeming impossibly young as he looked into John's face. 'I need you to tell me what you want.'

His soft command was heavy with emotion, dense enough to take John's breath away. He had always suspected there were unplumbed depths to Sherlock, but to see them so unguarded was beautifully shocking. It was not only hope he could hear, but the plea behind Sherlock's words. All this – the apologies and rehashing the past – had been difficult. No doubt Sherlock felt uncomfortably exposed. That was why he was asking John to lay his cards on the table. He needed his intentions to be stated in certain terms rather than half-hidden implications.

John had a choice. He could retreat and claim he wanted to rebuild what they'd had: friendship and no more. Alternatively, here on this strange brink where there was both nothing and everything to lose, he could take a risk.

His decision was made even before he gave it true consideration, born of the yearning that lay like embers beneath his skin. He and Sherlock were already close, their bodies angled towards each other and their hands entwined. All John had to do was sway forward, the pull of attraction dragging him further into Sherlock's personal space. 

Briefly, he hesitated, giving him time to retreat. However, there was no glimmer of distaste or confusion in Sherlock's face, only the bloom of his pupils and that ceaseless, unblinking attention as if John were the only thing in the world worthy of his notice.

John's eyes slipped shut in surrender, his heart racing as he angled his head and cautiously pressed his lips to Sherlock's, dry and chaste. Every muscle trembled, jarring his aching bones, but he ignored the soreness, pushing it aside in favour of everything else he could sense: full lips firm and giving in turn, the smoothness of pale skin and the flex of strong fingers against John's hands.

Weakly, he drew back, his mouth tingling. 'That's what I want,' he croaked, clearing his throat and curving his shoulders. He felt like he'd run a marathon, shaking with adrenaline as he waited for some kind of response. Sherlock looked dazed, that massive brain of his apparently silenced. At a less critical moment, John might be flattered, but right now he craved an answer. He needed Sherlock to ask for more or shut him down – _something._

Dark lashes fluttered, and a single line of puzzlement rumpled Sherlock's brow. John could almost see the questions piling up: his desperate attempts to consider the situation from an intellectual standpoint. Not that he would have any luck. Some things denied rational thought, and this was one of them.

Anxiety built in his stomach, twisting uncomfortably beneath his navel, but he needn't have been concerned. The instant that Sherlock dismissed his doubts flashed through his eyes, disbelief and confusion replaced with certainty. That sterling gaze darted over his face, reading God knew what from John's features. However, what he saw must have given him some reassurance, because a second later the kiss he had offered with such anticipation was boldly returned.

The swipe of Sherlock's tongue along the seam of his lips sent lightning down his spine, making him gasp and groan in heady relief. John's hands tangled in the collar of Sherlock's shirt, the one impeded by plaster graceless but no less needy. He pulled him close, trading bumped noses and quiet breaths as he nibbled at Sherlock's pout before sweeping inside.

Their teeth clattered uncomfortably, but John's mind was beyond anything except the sensation of wet warmth and the clever stroke of Sherlock's tongue. They said with shattered gasps and surprised noises what neither could adequately convey with halting, frightened words. 

They had come through the desolation of grief and the fury of betrayal to emerge, bloody but unbowed, on the other side. Now, they wanted the same thing: not the dissolution of their friendship, but the careful construction of something more.

John tried not to groan a complaint as Sherlock broke away, dropping his head to John's shoulder. The next instant, that wicked mouth was back on his skin, brushing against his pulse and across the coarse line of his stubble. 

He released Sherlock's shirt, delving his fingers into that sea of dark hair as he bared his neck to Sherlock's attentions. Excitement twisted in his chest, driven higher by the glassy disbelief that this was really happening – that something he'd wanted for so long was finally his. 

A nip of teeth made him jerk, his back arching in abandon before a streak of torment shot across his chest. His husky groan became a yelp, and John cursed the men who had left him unable to enjoy such attentions.

Sherlock pulled back, murmuring apologies. His hands ghosted along John's side without a whisper of pressure, as if he could heal the breaks beneath with nothing but a touch. More than anything, John wished that were possible. Sherlock's eyes were storm grey, his lips flushed and swollen. Creases cleaved the fabric of his shirt and one curl fell across his brow in a careless comma. He looked deliciously debauched, pink-cheeked and wanting, and John swore as acute slivers of renewed pain cut through his eagerness.

'Careful,' Sherlock urged, easing him back into the cradle of the cushions and getting to his feet. 'You're overdue more paracetamol. I shouldn't have –'

'No, you should've. Definitely.' John injected as much certainty as he could muster into his voice, snatching at Sherlock's hand and ignoring the bitch of his ribs at the motion. 'Besides, I started it, remember? I just wish I could finish it.'

A crooked grin made Sherlock look bright and sinful, and John drank in the sight before his flatmate vanished into the kitchen, returning with water and tablets. Carefully, he helped John to his feet, making sure he was steady and stepping back.

Taking the glass, John swallowed down the medication, trying to calm his racing heart as his thoughts zinged around inside his skull. God, he'd kissed Sherlock, and Sherlock had returned it with passion, wanton and willing. The trade of affection was beautifully uncomplicated, but now he could sense an awkward conversation ahead of them, redefining boundaries and outlining intentions.

It was only when he turned back to see Sherlock reclined on the couch, one hand held out in imperious invitation, that he realised perhaps that wouldn't be the case. Sherlock was not like anyone else, and it was ridiculous to think he would stumble along the same, well-worn path of John's previous relationships. This was uncharted territory, and John was happy to explore.

There was no way two grown men could share the slender space on the sofa without being pressed together in a single long line from shoulder to knee, and he smiled as he realised that was the point. Cautiously, he settled at Sherlock's side, trying not to grin like an idiot as a warm arm draped around his waist, keeping him securely on the couch's narrow berth.

'Okay?' Sherlock asked, and John knew he was querying more than just the ache in his side. He was watching carefully, searching for any sign of doubt. 'Are you sure about this? Starting something?'

He paused, giving it due consideration. It wouldn't make all that they had suffered at each other's hands magically disappear, but John could see this for what it was: an opportunity to create a stronger relationship from the shell of what they'd once had.

'Yes,' he murmured, meeting Sherlock's eyes. Their gazes locked and held, loading the air with heat. 'I don't think I've ever been more sure of anything in my life.' 

In the privacy of his mind, he realised that included Mary. Proposing to her seemed the right thing to do, yet he never experienced a bubble of excitement like the one now caught beneath his ribs. She'd offered him the rest of her life, a warm, loving wife to see him through the years ahead, but that commitment felt insignificant compared to the possibility of what he and Sherlock could share.

The whisper of lips against his own made his spine coil, his discomfort becoming a background hum beneath the harmony of Sherlock's teeth and tongue, gentle pressure and the tender shift of his hands. Desire swirled through John's blood, sending sparks flickering behind his closed eyelids, and Sherlock's erection pressed against his thigh, defined and insistent.

He broke the kiss with a stammered apology, frustration tightening his voice. 'I can't guarantee I'll be up for everything we might want to do...'

Sherlock shook his head, dismissing John's warning. 'You can have as much or as little as you want,' he said, tracing the outline of the bruise on John's cheekbone. 'We have plenty of time. I don't intend for this to be something short-term.' He licked his lips, anxiety flaring briefly. 'Do you?'

John smiled. 'No. Believe me, I want everything that's on offer.' He squeezed Sherlock's hip meaningfully before glaring at his cast. 'I'm just not sure I can go after it.'

'I'll be grateful for whatever you give me,' Sherlock replied, his eyes darting down to John's mouth as the next exhale shivered out of him. It was a transparent invitation, and John's heart thrilled as he happily obliged, losing himself in the promise of all that lay ahead.

They had survived Sherlock's departure and John's rage upon his return. They had drifted apart and lost themselves in false apathy, ploughing on through more than a year of silence and misunderstanding. Less than a week ago, it seemed they had reached their breaking point, and yet still they'd ended up here, in each other's arms.

John couldn't be sure whether this would end in happiness or disaster, but as he lay there, sharing sensuous kisses and learning more of this man he knew so well, he found himself eager to find out. 

Sherlock led, and John was happy to follow him into whatever the future held.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock glanced up from the microscope, experiencing a thrill of affection as he heard the scrape of the key in the lock. There was a time he would have been disgusted at the way his heart leapt in his chest, chastising himself for such an emotional dependency. However, those days were gone. Instead, he smiled, giving the slide on the platform one last glance before turning his consideration to the man pushing his way into their flat.

Water droplets clung to John's hair from the fog outside. His cheeks were bitten pink by the wind, and the bottom two inches of his jeans were saturated from stepping in puddles. He couldn't be comfortable, yet there was no sign of bad temper in his face. His eyes were bright and his grin earnest as he put a carrier bag on the kitchen surface – tea, milk and biscuits, Sherlock surmised – before casting a fond look in his direction.

'Were you actually going to bother getting dressed today?' he asked, chuckling as Sherlock rolled one shoulder in lazy disinterest.

'I am dressed.'

'Pyjamas and a dressing gown don't count.'

'It's more than I was wearing when I woke up this morning.' 

His smile turned wicked as John's eyes darkened at the memory, his suddenly uneven breathing as gratifying as any statement of devotion. They had never formally agreed to share Sherlock's bed. It simply happened that, after the abduction, John never vacated it. He curled up on the king-size mattress every night, content for Sherlock to join him whenever the urge struck.

For his part, Sherlock deeply suspected that he'd spent more time in his room than out of it these past three weeks. His bed had never been so tempting, and who could blame him? Even in those rare minutes that he allowed himself to picture what it might be like to take John as a lover, he had not come close to creating an accurate portrayal. 

He heard enough gossip to conclude John was an attentive partner, but nothing prepared him for the reality. Sherlock's previous experiences with sex, limited as they were, tended to revolve around penetration, with everything else falling into the realm of uninteresting foreplay. John proved that notion completely false.

It was possible that, thanks to his injuries, necessity guided John's hand in what they'd done so far: traded embraces and gasps beneath the covers, the slick glide of palms and the clever flicker of tongues. Their explorations only halted when John's pain drew the line in the sand. His ribs could not tolerate being jostled, and so every encounter was conducted with the kind of restraint rarely found in new relationships. It could have been frustrating – was, in its way – but it also meant they'd had no choice but to take things slow. 

Being limited in some of the physical aspects of intimacy offered unexpected benefits. They developed closeness in other ways, talking more in a clutch of days than they had in months. They shared space in the same companionable fashion they once treasured, but now their days were enhanced with long, slow kisses on the couch and the careful, torrid grind of their hips. When they found release, it was wrapped in each other, slow and intense, Sherlock's hands satisfying their needs as filthy litanies of praise fell from John's lips.

John's fingers slid around Sherlock's neck, chasing away his memories as he stroked the line of silk the robe cut across his nape. It was a mesmerising touch, one that Sherlock leaned into without a second thought. In the first few days, he'd been hesitant, surprised by every caress John gave him. Now, he underwent a Pavlovian response: comfort and arousal in equal measure. John made no secret of his affection. He didn't play the coquettish games that Sherlock's previous partners had indulged in, all misdirection and miscommunication. He was unguarded, and that honesty encouraged Sherlock's walls, one-by-one, to fall.

It had not been easy. Shared kisses did not wash away the taint of their past actions, but upping the stakes of what they stood to lose only made them more determined to fix the damage. Perhaps from the outside, that decision was illogical and doomed to disaster, but so far, they made it work. Even when their words stung, the simple connection of skin-to-skin provided respite. A new method of communication opened up, and with every passing day, Sherlock grew more proficient at the language of him-and-John.

With a quiet hum, he looked up, quickly reading the story of the few hours John had spent outside Baker Street's walls. 'I wouldn't have got up at all if you didn't have a doctor's appointment.' He tapped the plaster lightly, his gaze surfing over the signatures from some of the officers at the Yard and Molly: cheerful messages across the outer-face. The underside was covered in a random assortment of chemical bond structures, notes, phone numbers and the other miscellany Sherlock had seen fit to add – his cursive scrawl almost overlapping in places. 'How did it go?'

John made a dismissive noise, apparently more captivated by burying his fingers in Sherlock's thick hair than recounting the result of his outing. 'Fine. I tried to convince them to take off the cast, or at least replace it with a lighter one.'

'I take it they didn't agree with your assessment?' He watched the glimmer of irritation cross John's features. Healing had been an inconvenient process, one which John chafed against at every moment. Whoever said doctors made terrible patients had not been exaggerating. 'It's just as well. At least this way you don't have to worry about hurting the bone again if you're doing something strenuous.'

'Helping you with cases?'

Sherlock caught John's gaze, his focus narrowing to nothing but the man at his side as he lifted one eyebrow. 'That's not quite what I had in mind.'

John's pupils flared at the clumsy innuendo, an intrigued sound catching in his throat as his hand twitched against Sherlock's neck. 'Oh?' He licked his lips, his voice low and hushed as a smile crinkled lust-filled eyes. 'Maybe you should demonstrate.'

He didn't need telling twice. Like this, with Sherlock sat on the chair at the kitchen table, John was taller, and he stretched up as John bent down, meeting him halfway. It was ridiculous how something so simple could play tricks on the mind. Armed or not, John always invoked the notion of security, but this made Sherlock feel both vulnerable and cherished. It was not an experience to which he was accustomed, and he relished it as he lost himself to a rush of passion.

John kissed as if it were the only thing that mattered. Shallow or deep, innocent or filthy with promise, he worshipped Sherlock's lips. One warm palm cupped his cheek, and Sherlock's body leapt. Heat thrilled in his stomach as his bare toes curled, his hands grabbing fistfuls of jumper as he nipped at John's mouth: a tease and a proposition.

His thoughts skipped and staggered, steadily obliterated by the tangle of John's tongue. There had been plenty of time to experience John's kisses in all their nuances, and Sherlock was well aware that this was no mere “I missed you.” It was a prelude to more, hungry and wanting, and the loose cotton of his pyjamas did little to hide his physical reaction.

By the time John backed off enough for Sherlock to drag in more than a few snatched breaths, he was aching, his pallor flushed and his mind seared clean of anything that wasn't John. The clarity was stunning. It was rare that Sherlock experienced such single-mindedness without pharmaceutical assistance, and part of him was grateful that the phenomenon had such a willing recipient. John practically preened under the attention, his grin, readily given, was simultaneously brash and bashful as he tugged Sherlock to his feet.

'I love making you look like that,' he whispered, dragging his thumb over the swollen curve of Sherlock's bottom lip. 

'Like what?' Sherlock managed, taking a step back towards the bedroom. He smirked as John followed, chasing him to press them together from thighs to chest. His grasp caught in the lapels of Sherlock's robe, tugging it from his shoulders and growling in annoyance when the fabric pooled at Sherlock's elbows.

'Like I'm the best case you've ever come across and you can't wait to sink your teeth into me.'

That assessment was not far from the truth. Sherlock had never experienced this frisson with regards another person before. He was used to his thrills being more cerebral, his satisfaction found in the solution of the puzzles that crossed his path. Seldom was he subjected to this physical facet. It hummed in his veins and flowed like melted wax over his muscles, making his hands shake as he pulled at John's coat, extricating him from the wet material.

The cast impeded its fall to the floor, but before long the jacket thumped on the carpet. Soon, it was joined by John's boots, the laces loose enough that he was able to toe his way out of their confines. Yet still he remained frustratingly clothed, bundled up in his usual layers. The jumper John wore was one of his older ones, its cuff cut open and the threads clumsily tied to make it easier to get off over the plaster around his arm. Still, unwrapping him was not a task to be done blindly and without due care, and Sherlock's grumble of irritation made John chuckle breathlessly, helping as best he could until he was down to his t-shirt.

Sherlock immediately dove beneath the fabric, tracing the softness of John's side before lightly trailing over the strong brackets of his ribs. He had watched that skin change and heal, the bruises morphing from thunderous blacks and purples to sickly greens before fading from sight. Cuts scabbed and sealed, the stitches doing their job where required to leave pink, new flesh in their wake. He had learned this body and its ills through hours of devoted study, and yet still he returned, mapping it out anew beneath each caress.

The bedroom door banged against the wall, blindly pushed aside by Sherlock's elbow before being kicked shut by John's socked foot. Their room lingered in comforting twilight, the dismal day beyond the windowpane only visible through a gap a few inches wide between the curtains. It striped the bed in a single beam of silvery light, making mountain ranges out of the unkempt sheets.

Sherlock was tempted to shove John back onto the waiting sprawl of the mattress, but caution interceded. He may have improved in leaps and bounds, but he was not yet at the peak of good-health. It was still necessary for John to set the limits to their activities, although from the burn in those blue eyes, fractured bones and lingering aches were the last thing on his mind.

Urgency nipped at Sherlock's nerves, lending him a sense that something which had been restrained was now free from its leash. John's touches were bold and knowledgeable, confident as he skimmed under the thin shroud of Sherlock's t-shirt, nudging the fabric pointedly until he took it off.

Cool air hit his bare chest, and his nipples tightened in response as John scraped his teeth along the line of his collarbone, whispering indecent praises. There was an alluring unpredictability to John's affections, haphazard and random in ways that, even now, Sherlock failed to anticipate. It effectively shattered his concentration, driving logic from his mind until he was left to tug fretfully at the rest of John's garments, his every desire reduced to the urge for John's naked flesh pressed against his.

'Lie down,' he instructed, ignoring the way it sounded less like a command and more like he was begging, 'and get your damn clothes off.'

'Bossy,' John murmured affectionately, doing as he was asked and easing himself awkwardly on to the mattress. The lines of discomfort around his eyes were brief, and they faded entirely as he dragged Sherlock down beside him. 

He would rather be on top or underneath, covering John's strong frame or pinned down by it, but the half-healed fractures remained a concern. Instead, he concentrated on peeling away the irritating impediment of socks and jeans as John disposed of his t-shirt, all awkward elbows and grumbling about his cast.

'I can't wait until I'm out of this fucking thing,' he groused. 'I want to move properly again.'

'A few more weeks,' Sherlock said. 'Besides, I've enjoyed having the opportunity to learn precisely what you like.' He trailed a finger over John's stomach, watching flesh twitch and shiver as he inched downwards. 'And this way, I have your undivided attention.'

A whine escaped John's mouth, coarse and sinful as Sherlock palmed him through the tented fabric of his boxers, weighing the burden he had grown to know so well. If there was any inequality in their bed, it was that he'd been able to explore and learn John's body while his partner lacked the mobility to reciprocate. John simply wasn't up to do everything to Sherlock that he wanted, not yet, and while he anticipated that day, Sherlock was taking his chance to revel in the power he currently held in his grasp.

He nosed at the crook of John's neck, dragging in the perfume of soap and rain, as well as the warm earth and spice scent that was John's alone. His tongue darted out to explore the flavour, quickly followed by the faintest edge of his teeth, not enough to mark, but adequate to make his partner writhe at the possibility.

John was surprisingly fluid in his preferences and vastly happy to experiment, within a few key limits. However, Sherlock would have to be an idiot not to notice the strong foundation of possessiveness and commitment than underpinned John's desires. He took delight in laying his claim, whether that was through the physical blemish of a love bite or the more sentimental, insubstantial branding bestowed in a kiss. Still, it was only when Sherlock began to reciprocate the behaviour that the intensity of his responses increased, vocal and approving, as if Sherlock's equal need to possess him was just as important.

Fingers tugged his hair, and he tilted his head, exposing the column of his throat and groaning as John dragged his tongue over the flesh before sucking at the pale skin. Enjoyment inched towards the boundary of pain, teasing at the idea of danger and threat while never quite crossing the line.

Sherlock went rigid beneath the assault, dragging in a gasp. His hands spasmed around John's biceps before he forced them flat, sweeping greedily over the subtle swell of lax muscles. The scar from Afghanistan was a smooth whorl beneath his thumb, and he stroked its edge, knowing that John couldn't feel it, but would appreciate the gesture all the same: fascination and respect for the injury that had changed his life so thoroughly.

John's tongue lapped the mark he'd left, and a contented purr rumbled in his chest as Sherlock groused in mock complaint. 'You said you'd keep them below the line of my collar,' he reminded, failing to sound anything but aroused.

'I lied,' John replied, chuckling at the unimpressed expression he received. His joy became a loud groan when Sherlock retaliated, his teeth scraping pointedly over his Adam's apple. It was a testament to the trust they'd managed to rebuild that John simply lifted his jaw, trembling while he traced the strong stanchion of his neck and collarbones, relishing his responsiveness.

He did not know if John was like this with everyone he'd slept with, and Sherlock hastily shoved the thought of _others_ aside as jealousy curdled in his stomach. What mattered was this, now, John greedy for him and eager to give in return. His desperation to reciprocate was obvious in the occasional, aborted lunge for more that was pulled up short by a stab of pain.

'Easy,' he urged, nosing at the beat of John's heart where it raced against his sternum. 'If you hurt yourself, I'll stop.'

John lifted his head, his expression hazy yet horrified. 'You wouldn't.'

Rather than reply, he reached up, circling John's wrist and settling his hand in his hair. John's grasp closed instinctively in the curls, not pulling, but firm all the same. 'As soon as you're completely better, you can do whatever you want to me,' he vowed, watching that blue gaze fog at the thought. 'Now, you just need to tell me where you want me.'

John made a choked sound, pushing at Sherlock's crown to guide him unapologetically downwards. Sherlock didn't make it simple, stopping to bless his chest and stomach with kisses before nosing at the faint gold trail of hair that led beneath the waistband of his underwear.

'Obvious.' He blew a hot breath over John's cloth-clad erection and listened to him whine. It seemed that, today, “slow” was not what he had in mind, yet he couldn't resist the opportunity to make John work for it, with his voice if not his body. 'Do you want me here?' he asked, licking the hard summit of one hipbone, then moved, clambering between John's legs and biting a line down to his navel. 'Here?'

'Sherlock...' John growled, his involuntary grin ruining any playful threat. 'I swear when I'm better I'm going to make you beg.'

'I'll hold you to that.' He ducked his head, mouthing the ridge of flesh through thin boxers. A thrill shot down his spine at John's choked off shout of approval, and he moaned quietly in response, outlining the fabric and making the muscles in John's thighs twitch. 

In one quick motion, he peeled the underwear down and away, pitching them off the bed. John's cock thumped against his belly, dark and wanting, and Sherlock allowed himself to relish the jolt of desire caused by the sight. John was not beautiful by classical standards, but like this, stripped and bold despite his vulnerability, he made Sherlock's mouth water.

One warm hand strained for his shoulders, stroking along the back of his neck and twisting gently in his hair as Sherlock directed his regard to the centre of John's need. The broad blade of his tongue slashed from root to tip, and he traced the seam where John's legs met his torso. Gradually, he moved inwards until John's balls rested, soft and heavy, in Sherlock's palm and the skin behind spread taut beneath the firm press of his thumb.

A glance up showed John's eyes were screwed tight, his lips parted around the unsteady breaths that fluted his stomach. The fingers caged by the cast twisted in the sheet as he succumbed to Sherlock's knowledgeable affection. He kept it deliberately light, more tormenting than satisfying – the occasional wet kiss to the side of John's shaft a pledge, rather than any form of release. Within minutes, John's voice had joined the fray with low curses and inarticulate sounds of encouragement, desperate for more.

Sherlock was happy to oblige.

Resting one hand on John's stomach, he grasped the base of his arousal with the other and quickly wrapped his lips around the head, lapping at the bitter-sweet taste. It was not the most pleasant flavour in the world, but John's response made it delicious in other ways. His hips bucked, controlled only by the careful application of Sherlock's strength. If the motion hurt his ribs, it wasn't enough to break the spell, and John's words became sighs, orchestrated by the slide of Sherlock’s lips and the hollow of his cheeks. 

The cup of John's palm over his head was loving, at odds with the base grind of the rest of John's frame. Sherlock rewarded him in every way he could think of, caressing and squeezing as he dragged his tongue down and back, making John yelp and spread his legs in pointed invitation.

'Oh, God! This is –'

'Good?' Sherlock asked, earning a pitiful sound because of the absence of his mouth on John's body.

'Unfair,' he replied, his tone making the word more a prayer than a criticism. 'The things you do to me...'

Sherlock grinned, sliding his hands under John and checking for any sign of discomfort before lifting his pelvis for better access. He squeezed and spread John's backside as his tongue and lips moved along his perineum, kissing and licking at the ring of muscle beyond. The approving cries that filled the air were the only encouragement he needed, and he lost himself in the task, barely noticing John brace his weight with his good arm so that Sherlock's fingers were free to roam. 

His own, neglected erection pressed into the mattress, and he began to shift, seeking out friction to ease the sharpest edge of his need. Not that it helped. Hearing John like this, choking and swearing, was doing nothing to help his discipline, and Sherlock drew back, burying his face in John's thigh and dragging in a shuddering breath before kissing the hair-scattered plane. 

A garbled noise, almost pained, made him lift his head, and he realised that John was gripping the base of his cock. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes gleamed as he sucked in one gasp after another, obviously battling for some semblance of restraint. After a few seconds, he let go, snatching the lube off the bedside table and thrusting it blindly towards Sherlock.

'Please,' he begged, hooking one foot over Sherlock's back and pressing with his heel. 'I want you in me. Properly.'

Sherlock tilted his head, trying to think around the sudden clamour of desire that saturated his mind. This was a step neither of them had yet taken, but John was propped on one elbow, his expression half-drugged with passion as he looked down at where Sherlock still lay between his legs.

'Your ribs...'

'Will be fine. For fuck's sake, I won't break.' John gritted his teeth, his voice stuttering as Sherlock's thumb dragged around his coronal ridge. 'I'll tell you to stop if it hurts, I swear, but...' He trailed off, wriggling restlessly, his appeals falling silent as he spoke with his body instead, practically vibrating with longing.

Swallowing tightly, Sherlock considered logistics. He wasn't sure if John had done this before, but if he had then the chances were it was a while ago. It would be better for him if he lay on his front, but the cast on his arm made that more complicated. Besides, if he couldn't see John's face, it would be easier for him to hide any signs of suffering, and Sherlock had no intention of letting him get away with that.

'Lift up,' he ordered roughly, easing John's foot off his back and stretching up to grab a pillow. Before he could latch onto it, though, John cupped Sherlock's dick, rubbing at the pyjamas where they were already dewed with moisture. Lust zapped along his nerves, his forgotten flesh abruptly alive with sensation. His eyelashes flickered and his spine curved, pushing him greedily into John's grasp. 

A sob escaped him, and he lowered his head, pressing his brow to John's as his eyes closed and his lips parted. The next second he was lost to John's kiss, the magic of his fingers and mouth in harmony as his mind began to grey at its edges. He felt John shove his pyjamas down around his thighs, leaving Sherlock's cock to hang between his legs as he stroked along the shaft in slow, tortuous pulls.

'You – you need to stop.' He blinked, shocked at how slurred he sounded. 'If you don't, this is going to be over before I've even started.'

John head-butted him gently, his grin lewd. 'Get on with it then,' he ordered, allowing Sherlock to jam the pillow under his hips and watching as he peeled away the last piece of clothing that separated them. Sherlock had never been self-conscious, but there was something humbling about the way John looked at him, all amazement, and he blushed under that scrutiny before reaching for the lube and popping open the cap.

John's arousal had flagged slightly, but he responded in moments to Sherlock's ministrations: a quick hiss at the cool gel before it rapidly warmed, allowing Sherlock's hand to slip, silk smooth, back between his legs. He rested his head on John's stomach, pressing kisses from one iliac crest to the other as he circled John's hole before slipping one finger cautiously inside. 

This, at least, wasn't uncharted territory between them. They had spent a number of glorious hours learning each other's intimate places; it meant that Sherlock took only a short while to find John's prostate, skirting its edge and hearing his breath hitch before he brushed over it. John was sensitive, more so than Sherlock, and preferred a lighter touch. It was like coaxing the right note from a violin string, and the concentration required forced Sherlock to focus on the man beneath him, rather than the thrumming ache between his own legs.

He played John's symphony, a novice still, but getting better with practice. The pad of his thumb traced the ring of flesh around his knuckle as he murmured unintelligible praises – helpless things about heat and longing. It would be so easy to lose himself in the sprawl of John's form, the wanton press of his palms and his joyful profanities, but he stayed firm, making way for himself with two fingers, then three, twisting and flexing.

The crook of his middle digit made John's cock lurch hungrily, and his words took on deeper, ragged urgency. 'Now. Now, Sherlock. Come on.'

'And you call me bossy,' he chuckled, withdrawing carefully and reaching for a condom from the bedside table, wiping his lube slicked fingers on the sheets so he could tear open the foil and sheathe himself. Quickly, he dragged enough of his brain together to check John's expression, but the only torment there was from denied gratification. There was not an inch of pain stamping its taint onto his features, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as he knelt between John's legs, lining himself up before easing his way inside.

John threw back his head, his neck arched as a long moan scraped up his throat. His grasp dug in to Sherlock's thigh just above his bent knee hard enough to leave bruises, and he honed in on the small discomfort – anything to stop himself getting carried away by the sultry pressure surrounding his shaft.

By the time he was fully seated, they were both panting. The first gleam of sweat pricked Sherlock's brow and sternum, and he watched John lick his lips as if tempted to lap it away. Instead, he settled for skimming through it, five points of contact from Sherlock’s heart to where they were joined, electric and thrilling.

'You all right?' Sherlock choked out, huffing a laugh as John nodded fervently.

'You can move.'

'Just – give me a minute.'

John's chuckle was earnestly pleased and cracked with lust at its edges. However, patience didn't seem to be in his reach. Before Sherlock could snatch in a breath, John surged his hips into a roll, stabbing torrid need into the pit of Sherlock's stomach. Immediately, his hand splayed across John's belly, pinning him in place and meeting the dare in his eyes. Cocking his head, he watched as John gave himself one bold stroke: a performance for Sherlock's admiration.

Well, if that's the way they were going to play it...

Slowly, he withdrew, watching John's lashes quiver and his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. A fractional change of angle, and he rocked in again, trying to concentrate on trajectory until, finally, he grazed over the right spot.

'Fuck!' John gasped, all coyness falling from his face as he surrendered to the sensations Sherlock was pulling from him. Muscles flexed as his spine tilted, drawing him deeper. Just because John was beneath him didn't mean he was a passive recipient. With every twitch he guided Sherlock to precisely where he wanted him, taking as much gratification as he gave.

Within minutes they'd settled into a rhythm, give and take, gasp and groan. Sherlock wanted to thrust hard, but he didn't dare for fear of making John's healing injuries worse. Instead he satisfied himself with small, shallow ruts, smoothing down John's stomach and over the proud jut of his arousal. 

Enthusiastically, he captured its girth, biting his lip as John's fingers overlapped his, leading Sherlock through all the tricks that he'd learned over the past few weeks. He knew how to make John keen, what caused his balls to draw up and his dick to pulse, but there was an added intimacy to this, a reminder they were in it together that was underscored by the eager grasp of John's body around him.

A scuff over John's prostate coupled with the flash of Sherlock's thumb over his glans made him clench, a strangled _“Oh!”_ escaping him as he urged them faster. Reluctantly, Sherlock pulled back his hand, watching John conduct the tempo of his satisfaction as he concentrated on the drive of his thrusts, snapping forward only to pull out and repeat. His steady, gentle care gradually fell away as the electric briar of his climax coiled at the base of his spine, winding tighter until it buzzed through his veins.

Dimly, he was aware of John swearing his way through an orgasm, his muscles clamping along Sherlock's length as the sound of his jerking hand became slick and viscous, but it didn't really register. He was too intent on the slam of euphoria that rocked through him, urging him to bury himself deep. He gripped John's hips as, blinded and breathless, he let the reins of restraint slip away.

White filled his mind as the air in his lungs thinned to ether. Every movement sent sparks stuttering along his nerves to feed the explosion at his core, dancing the frontier between bliss and agony. His brain shut down, taken offline by the overwhelming punch of his release. He shook his way through the crashing wave of ecstasy, riding out the storm until, slowly, reality began to intercede once more.

His shoulders were hunched and his head bowed in supplication over John's thrumming, sweat-glossed body. The muscles in his legs ached and his knees were stiff. However, Sherlock ignored the discomfort as he surrendered his death grip, painting his fingers through the come that streaked John's stomach and humming with pride before trailing up over his racing heart.

'You all right?' he croaked, clearing his throat to ease the roughness that coated his words.

John opened one eye, a grin tilting his lips despite his chest heaving as if he'd dashed a sprint. 'Of course.' He grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, pulling him down for a kiss without a care about the awkward angle. His caresses were designed to soothe rather than arouse, stroking over Sherlock's shoulders and down his spine before cupping his jaw and pulling away. 'Are you?'

Sherlock chuckled, nodding weakly as he reached down to ease himself out before disposing of the condom in the nearby bin. His elastic limbs were heavy and impossible to coordinate, and he slumped back onto the mattress at John's side with a satisfied groan. It was tempting to curl up, shut his eyes, and enjoy the peace, but he bullied enough of his mind together to grab some tissues.

'I wasn't expecting you to want that,' he confessed, batting John's hand out of the way so he could clean them up.

'You to fuck me?' John asked, the profanity made more obscene by the lingering gravel in his voice. He giggled as Sherlock aimed for his ticklish spots before pitching away the used tissue and collapsing into the pillows. 'I think we've already established I want pretty much whatever you're offering.'

Sherlock hummed in agreement, untangling the twisted rope of the sheet and spreading it over them before pressing a kiss to John's temple. 'You know that feeling is completely mutual.'

'Good. Believe me, I plan to take full advantage of that before too long.' His hand wrapped over Sherlock's wrist, stilling him where he was carefully brushing John's injured ribs. 'Stop worrying,' he urged. 'I won't lie, they might ache a bit once the afterglow wears off, but it's more than worth it.'

With a sigh, Sherlock hooked an arm over John's waist, pulling him close so that their bodies slotted together, legs entwined and skin pressed warm to its counterpart. 'Thank you,' he murmured, smiling as John pushed his head beneath Sherlock's chin, his breath a lazy whisper across his collarbones. 

'For what? Sex? It's me who should be thanking you. You were doing most of the work.'

Sherlock inhaled the fragrance of semen and sweat, traces of soap and John's shampoo. The scent grounded him in the here and now, the boundaries of the bed they shared and the embrace that held him in place. It brought home just how much he had almost lost, and the value of what he had finally gained. For all the pain he and John had suffered, the ache of separation and the agony of their anger-filled reunion, they had reached the best possible outcome.

With a smile, he shook his head, whispering his answer into the tousled spikes of John's hair.

'For everything.'

John's arm tightened where it lay over his hip, rubbing down Sherlock's side as if he were cherished. For a while, there was no sound but the steadiness of their breathing and the bustle of London beyond, but there was a thoughtful edge to the tranquillity. Sherlock could almost hear the passage of John's mind through the ups and downs that had brought them to this point, balancing the good and the bad.

Warm lips pressed to the hollow of his throat, firm over Sherlock's pulse and speaking volumes of gratitude and acceptance that mere words could never truly encompass. 

John's heart lay in that kiss, and the promise of forever shone in his simple reply.

'You're welcome, Sherlock.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so much everyone for reading <3  
> B xxx  
> [My Tumblr](http://the-pen-pot.tumblr.com)  
> [My Sherlock Fic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/works?fandom_id=133185)  
> [My Hobbit Fic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kingmaker/works?fandom_id=873394)  
> [My Fullmetal Alchemist Fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction_FMA/works)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bloody But Unbowed [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128109) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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